Down Once More
by C. Fitz
Summary: Meg Giry could hardly recall a time when she did not know stories of the Opera Ghost, a Ghost who seems to be just a man, a real man, living isolated and alone somewhere in that beautiful theatre. Meg knew what it was like to be lonely.. Likely to be a melting pot of book, movie, musical and Susan Kay.
1. Chapter 1

_"The cellar! I have to get into the cellar!_ "

Panic erupted throughout the house and all around her in the wings. La Carlotta's shrill voice pierced the din and a swarm of sycophants clucked about, attempting to comfort her while gendarmes tried to remove the bloated body of the tenor, Piangi. The well-coiffed demimonde of Paris surged from the auditorium, away from the ruins of the new chandelier and the flames that were spreading quickly across the velvet seats and carpeted floor. It was pure chaos and the Phantom the engineer of destruction. The Opera Populaire's personal Angel of Death.

Christine was gone. Vanished before the eyes of Paris at the height of her duet with Piangi. 'With the Phantom.' Meg corrected herself. She had to get into the cellars; she had to find the Angel.

"Madame Giry!" the Vicomte ran up to her mother and she motioned for him to follow. Stuffing a leather bag with things that included a small lantern and matches, Meg darted after them.

"Keep your hand at the level of your eye, monsieur." her mother was saying.

"Like this, monsieur!" Meg demonstrated, with her arm extended, hand flat and level with her eyes. "I'll go with you!"

"No, Meg." Madame Giry shoved her daughter into a nook next to a costume rack in the back hallway. "You must stay here."

"Christine is my friend too." Meg protested _. "And what might Raoul do to the Opera Ghost?"_ she added silently. Christine was a distant second to her worry over the Phantom.

"It is too dangerous! This way, monsieur."

Meg huffed, scrambling back to the wings. There were multiple ways into the lower cellars; she didn't need to follow her mother. But she had no idea how to reach the lowest level where the Opera Ghost apparently dwelt. The shouts of dozens of volunteer firemen greeted her return to the stage. Heavy smoke billowed in the auditorium, rolling up towards the stage. Most everyone had evacuated save for the group of angry voices she heard on the other side of the stage.

"Follow the Vicomte, quickly! Let us hunt down this beast."

"He has preyed on us for too long!"

 _"A mob!_ " she hung back, pressing against the wall. Scene shifters, chorus men and general rabble had clumped together to form a mob, who very quickly took off in the direction of Madame Giry and Victome de Chagny. If they reached the Ghost first, they would kill him. Meg blew a long blonde strand of hair from her itchy eyes. She had lingered too long.

Meg began to run, wheezing a little from the smoke inhalation. The trap door in the stage had been overtaken by smoke and the advancing flames; she wracked her brain for another route into the theatre's underbelly. She skittered around a corner and into a deserted hallway that led to the ballet dormitories. Her boots thudded loudly on the wooden floorboards and she encountered no one on her beeline to the dimly lit stairwell tucked away into a dusty corner. She all but threw herself down the steps, tumbling into the first of a series of storage rooms that made up the first cellar. Pulling herself to her feet, Meg continued her journey deeper into the maze.

Fingers of smoke slipped through the cracks of the floors above, tickling her nose, making her cough. The smell of smoke clung heavily to the black trousers and white linen blouse of her _Don Juan Triumphant_ costume.

"He kidnapped your friend. He's killed people. He's a monster, Meg Giry." she muttered angrily skirting the walls of the rooms she passed through, each growing dimmer than the last. "But what monster writes music as beautiful as that?"

Running her hands along the walls for a door or the nothingness of an open stairwell, Meg cursed quietly, finding no passage. She rummaged through her bag. The lantern was small but serviceable, more appropriate as a stage prop than for practical use, but it would have to do. Meg struck a match against the wall and lit the lantern, the flame filling the tinted glass with a weak glow. It wasn't much but it would find a stairwell.

She found what she sought in a room stuffed with old, dusty furniture, far from the stage where the air was stale and smokeless. Behind the stacked divans a doorway stood open, forgotten and leading downward. Meg remembered this particular door now, from her childhood of running recklessly throughout the opera house, exploring before her mother could catch her and drag her back to the _barre_. The second level cellar was laid out a bit more straightforward than the first, with hallways and doors and not room upon room squished in together.

The air was less smoky but stale and Meg's chest ached for a clean breath. Her boots made a heavy clomping noise on the floorboards, Meg not even bothering to soften her steps. There was no one down here and if there were, they were not likely to trouble her. Faint shouts from the theatre above were gradually swallowed by the distance between them. Her only home was going up in flames and all she could think about was its Phantom.

He was as much a part of that home as her mother or any of the inhabitants of the opera house.

Meg could hardly recall a time when she did not know stories of the Opera Ghost. The delicious fright that she and the other ballet girls pursued in their off-hours. She could not remember when she began to realize that the Ghost was not actually a ghost at all. It had been before Christine came to them, most likely. Her mother often slipped from their quarters at night, to check on the other ladies of the ballet. And sometimes, Meg would find her in Box Five, listening intently to a beautiful voice, a man's voice, giving her instruction, perhaps on his behalf.

If it had been the Opera Ghost, then he was just a man, a real man, living isolated and alone somewhere in that beautiful theatre. Meg Giry knew what it was like to be lonely.

She skidded to a stop and leaned against the wall with a sigh. A childhood spent in the theatre and drilled in ballet had afforded Meg plenty of company. It took hundreds of people to keep an opera company running smoothly and there was almost always someone around. But most of them did not want a tiny tag-a-long and her classmates had been taught early on that there were no friends among them. They were each others competition, for roles, for better spots in the _corps de ballet_ and they learned to view one another suspiciously. As the daughter of the ballet mistress, she was singled out for the abuse of her dance mates and isolated from the rest. When she had not been dancing, Meg played in the cellars. In these rooms filled with the old furniture and forgotten props of former productions, Meg taught ballet to her dolls, sailed the Seven Seas and led revolutions against tyranny and injustice. When she grew older she read quietly and sometimes, she danced, imagining herself in the lead parts reserved for the Prima Ballerina.

A time or two, she left letters for the Opera Ghost, pouring out her childish angst on page after page of her mother's fine paper. Meg had never been certain he had received them and she hoped now that he had not.

Meg moved quickly down the hallway, the dim shape of a stairwell beckoning her further below.

* * *

The fourth cellar, at least what she thought was the fourth cellar, was damp and cool. Well below street level, Meg supposed. It was dark down there and she crept carefully through the almost impenetrable blackness, her tiny lantern hardly worth its salt. Somewhere on this level, the furnaces burned bright. Maybe. She had no real idea where she was at. She had hoped there would have been some sort of intermittent light but in a cellar few used, if ever, it was cheaper not to bother. She drew a shaky breath. Perhaps following after Christine and the Phantom had been a poor idea.

"I should turn around," she whispered to the tiny flame dancing inside the lantern. The Opera Ghost had been here for years, he would know how to escape intruders. He did not need her help and he would not welcome it. The Vicomte had gone after Christine, he would rescue her. Meg wrinkled her nose. There were few people in her life more annoying to her than Raoul de Chagny; patron of the opera or no. Leave it to an aristocrat to waltz in with some nonsense about a red scarf and expect a girl to swoon.

"Except she practically did." Meg mumbled, stumbling in the darkness. Until she had seen the Ghost's face for herself when Christine unmasked him that night, Meg could not understand her friend's intense aversion. His manipulation of her innocence seemed to bother her far less than the sight of 'that face'. Raoul was a buffoon, a fop and the Phantom? Well, he was a genius, Meg learned. Discordant, passionate music poured from his soul, unlike anything she had ever danced to. When she danced in _Don Juan Triumphant_ , she felt afire and alive as she never had before.

The air grew heavy with the scent of water and her heart stuttered in her chest. She must be near the lake that Christine had told her about, which meant she had somehow gone from the fourth to fifth cellar without realizing it. The ground began to slope downward and absorbed in what lay ahead, Meg lost her footing with a shriek and tumbled down the smooth incline, landing hard in the gravel below. Her lantern clattered to the floor and rolled away, the flame extinguished.

Heavy darkness ebbed away into a grey luminescence that hung over the subterranean water like a funeral shroud; a perfectly suitable setting for a phantom of anything.

Muffled shouts drifted across the water from the opposite shore. Christine's sweet, strained voice, punctuated by Raoul's stupid one. Angrier voices greeted her from her side of the lake.

"The phantom of the opera is here!"

'Track down the murderer!'

 _"The mob_!" They must have followed her mother. Meg scrambled to her feet, crying out from the sharp pain in her ankle, which she dearly hoped was not a sprain. Wincing as she stepped down, Meg limped as quickly as she could to the water's edge, looking around frantically for a way across. A boat bobbed gently on the opposite shore.

 _"This is madness_." she scolded herself and then threw herself in, gasping with the shock.

" _Merde_! It's cold!" she began paddling to the other side. Meg coughed, choking on the icy water.

The other side of the lake was a thin strip of land that ended abruptly, cut off by a sheer stone wall. Meg dragged herself through the shallows and collapsed, sputtering, her lungs burning from the unwelcome water. Frantic footsteps grew closer, but the mob had not yet gained the lake.

"Will he follow us?" it was a breathless, wheezy Vicomte. Vicious red marks decorated his neck, they looked like rope burn.

"A noose would be an improvement to his sense of fashion." she snickered and slipped back into the cold water and pressed herself up against the wall, praying not to be spotted. From an entryway she had not seen emerged a disheveled Raoul leading a bridal Christine. Meg was too distracted by the sound of her chattering teeth to give much thought to the wedding gown.

"No, he won't." Christine paused, tugging Raoul from his swift pace. Her beautiful eyes were in shadow but Meg could see the unhappy twist of her lips, her shoulders hunched in slightly as though she were in pain. Without another word, Christine turned away from her fiancé and disappeared back into the Phantom's lair. Raoul called after her but remained on the shore. She reappeared mere minutes later, hands clasped in front and Meg could see fat tears rolling down her pink cheeks. Ushering Christine into the boat, the Vicomte leaped in after her and pushed off, hurriedly poling across the water, desperate to get away from whatever had transpired inside. Once the darkness had swallowed them, Meg trudged back onto the shore, her costume sopping wet, her boots heavy and sloshing with water. She shivered violently and stumbled onward into the house on the lake. She had hoped for stealth but instead squished her way into the well-appointed sitting room, littered with sheet music, overturned chairs, discarded cushions. A woman's dress was slung over a richly upholstered settee; Christine's costume from the Dungeon Act of the opera. The room was devoid of the Phantom.

Muffled cries of the mob outside, across the lake, broke into her thoughts. Splashing and thrashing about in the water as the more hearty among them began to swim across. Did they not find the boat?

"Opera Ghost?" she called softly, hobbling about the room, checking the adjacent rooms and their dark corners. No Opera Ghost. Meg returned to the sitting room and collapsed ungracefully into a chair. "He must have fled." she breathed, filled with relief. A flash of white caught her eye. On a velvet cushion near her sodden feet lay his white half mask, discarded and forgotten in haste. Meg reached down for it, taking it up gently. It was still warm. He could not have gone far, then.

"And he will want his mask." Meg tucked the mask carefully into her very damp bag and rose, poking at the walls and shelves for another route. The mob was nearing the shore and she was almost out of time. It was time to hide.

A swath of black velvet draped richly over a tall object near the old, worn harpsichord. Shards of broken glass glittered on the floor. The scent of damp earth tickled her nose. Meg peeked beneath the velvet and breathed deeply the cool air of a dark passageway. It was the only way he could have gone.

She slipped into the passage, pushing a long panel into place over the broken doorway, hoping it would go unnoticed. It was dark, like the bottom cellars and damp. Limping along, Meg traveled through the darkness, the sounds of the mob bursting through the Phantom's home soon faded into silence, broken only by the occasional drip of water nearby. The courage she had felt earlier, plumbing the depths of the opera house, reaching the underground home, had evaporated and only the growing pain in her ankle remained. Meg winced with each step. She prayed through gritted teeth that there was an exit to this void.

 _Slosh clunk, slosh clunk_ , Meg dragged her feet, sounding more like a monster in a Gothic horror than a dancer in the Paris Opera. A shudder overtook her and she paused, resting against the wet and dripping stone.

"Opera Ghost?" Meg called again. There had to be a better name to use. For all she knew, 'Opera Ghost' was insulting. But it was how he had signed his letters to the management. Meg frowned. Every artist she had ever encountered had had a fragile ego and it was always to their mutual benefit for her to caress those egos.

"Maestro?" she tried. He was a musician and a composer. Even the Opera Ghost could be a victim of his own vanity.

A choked sob escaped into the darkness, somewhere ahead of her. Meg stepped forward slowly. Shivering, hobbling and keeping a shaky hand at the level of her eyes, she approached the wounded Opera Ghost.

"Maestro?" Meg whispered again, the sobbing growing louder. He was very near. Meg slumped against the wall to relieve the throbbing in her foot. "Maestro, are you all right?" she asked stupidly.

The sobs ceased abruptly and silence returned to the passageway. It hung heavily, like the moments before a summer storm broke over the city. Harsh laughter rained down cold and hard. Something hissed in her ear and she pressed hard against the wall, trying to absorb into the stone.

"Not even you are that stupid, nosy child." The Phantom's voice bounced around her. "What do you want, _petit moucheron_?"

 _Little gnat_. Meg winced.

"Begone, child." the voice sighed.

Meg tried to 'begone', she _wanted_ to 'begone', but her ankle no longer wanted to support her and now that she had found him, she was frozen with fear. Her mother had always scolded her about hasty choices and now she was alone in the darkness with a hasty choice who would not hesitate to kill her if he so chose. She had never actually had an encounter with the Opera Ghost.

"You are still here, gnat."

"I am - I am sorry for what they did." Meg's voice shook, with cold, with fear. "The Vicomte, my mother.. Christine -" the air in front of her grew warmer.

"Do _not_ speak her name to me." he hissed, wine soured breath hitting her face.

"T-they are a-a-after you, Muh - muh.. Maestro." she stuttered through her clattering teeth. "A mob - and the theatre is on fire. You need to go!"

The darkness was silent. Meg's head lolled back, hitting the wall. Had he gone?

"And what do you care, _moucheron_?" he asked mournfully.

"They will kill you!"

"..and?"

Meg wrapped her arms tight around her chest, in a futile effort to warm herself. She no longer had the strength or the will to argue with the Opera Ghost.

"What do you care for the demon, _petit criquet_?" he murmured, wrapping her with the music in his voice.

"Y-y-you are n-no d-d-demon." she shivered.

"You are soaked through." the Phantom muttered. Strong, thin arms slipped around her and lifted her easily, cradling her to his chest and the cloak settled around them both. It smelled of the earth and of spices. A low, unfamiliar melody rumbled through his chest and filled her mind. And then Meg knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

Never, for as long as he lived, would Erik be able to explain why he had rescued the ballet rat in the tunnel. It wasn't until he had settled her onto the cot in the safe room and lit a candle that he realized that this particular rat belonged to the traitorous Madame Giry.

"How fortuitous." he murmured to the shivering girl. She was soaked to the skin, from head to toe. _Mon Dieu_ , did she swim across? Erik vaguely recognized the costume from his opera. How could anyone dance in those boots? What had the wardrobe mistress been thinking? An angry red flush spread across her chest, her heart shaped face was pale and clammy with a feverish sheen. He stared down at her, uncertain of what to do with her, if anything.

 _"She's Christine's friend."_ Erik dropped to the hard floor, squeezing his eyes shut to will away the beautiful face of that dancer-turned-singer. This gnat had no business down here, no business seeking him out. _"Leave me, leave me to this prison"_. Life had been easier before, easier without other people. Easier without love.

"No one can ever love Erik. Poor, unhappy Erik!" he wailed.

Letting Christine go had been the worst moment of his awful life. She had softened the heart he never allowed himself to have and the hope that she could love him blossomed, soaring with every octave of her bell-like voice.

And then she was gone; snatched from his grasp by that despicable fop. She had almost come back to him, beautiful and disheveled in her bridal clothes and his dying heart had quivered with reawakening hope.

"Christine would keep her promise to Erik." he drew his knees up and pressed his forehead to them. "She would be Erik's living bride. So pretty. So delicate." he whispered. "With a voice like an angel."

Her tearful doe eyes were the only answer he needed. The gold band he had angrily shoved onto her ring finger was suddenly in his trembling palm.

"Christine," he pleaded. "I love you."

His darling girl said nothing, only kissing his ruined cheek. Then she was gone. The flower of hope died a second time. Over the sound of alarm bells was the loud slap of the water against oars as the Vicomte rowed his love away as fast as he could.

Intruders were approaching but Erik had no longer cared. Only a habit of self-preservation, cultivated over decades, guided him through a broken mirror, through a long tunnel and into a safe room he had created long ago. Once secreted away in the darkness, surrounded by rations he never thought he would have need of, Erik gave into his grief and cried.

A small moan escaped the young Giry, drawing Erik back to the present moment. Resentment bubbled up within him.

"It would serve your mother right if I left you here to die, little gnat." Erik's palm itched for his lasso but it was still lying in the drawing room, in ruins. He should have overtaken her in the tunnel.

Her small hand was cold in his. "Erik could sit here as you shiver _moucheron_. Would you like that?" he stroked her palm lightly. "Erik could hold your hand and watch this fever burn you to ash." The girl's appearance could be a gift. A gift to his revenge on the indomitable Madame Giry, who had betrayed him at last.

Erik sighed, he was tired. He lay a slender hand upon her forehead. She was already hot and growing hotter.

His tattered heart ached and if it could not have Christine, then peace was what it desired. He gazed into the dark corners of the room where the chests were stacked. Erik had never known peace, not truly. And if peace was to be denied him, perhaps he could give it to another. Erik slowly stretched his long legs. There had always been a soft spot in his black heart for the sick, the broken, the disadvantaged. Little Giry needed dry clothes.

There were clean and dry chemises in the Louis-Philippe room. She was daintier than Christine but at least it would be dry.

 _Christine_... he drew a shaky breath and rose to his feet. "Damn you, little Giry. Could you not leave a man alone?"

Erik flipped open a chest in the corner, feeling his way through the contents for something that would suit. The mob could still be in his home, there could be stragglers in the cellars, or worse, the gendarmes. He could not risk going to the wardrobe. Not yet.

"Ah, there." pulling out clean bed linen, he shook it out. It smelled like it had been shut up in a wooden chest for years but it would have to do. A pillow sham would make a fine bandage for her ankle. Satisfied, Erik tossed the linens on the floor and dropped onto a low stool. The black leather boots came off with a wet sucking noise, like he was pulling her foot out of a greedy swamp. Her thin linen blouse came next and beneath that, a cloth bound her chest. Erik shifted nervously on the stool, his hands trembling slightly.

"She needs to be dry." he reminded himself and gently he lifted her to unwind the binding. She fit neatly against his chest and seemed so peaceful. Erik did his best to avert his eyes once her breasts were free. Trousers were last and landed with a _plop_ in the pile with the other garments, next to the soggy satchel he had found with her. He unfurled the dry linens quickly, looking at her small body as little as possible. He had seen a naked woman before, but never quite so close.

Erik pulled the sheet up to her chin and tucked it gently around her, trying to ignore how smooth and clear her skin was and the gentle swell of her breasts. Shadow concealed her most secret places but he was uncomfortably aware. Little Giry had the strong body of a dancer balanced beautifully with soft, feminine lines. Perfection enough to satisfy any great master.

"Fool." he spat, quashing the heat stirring low. "You have watched this one grow up." he turned away and willed himself under control. "She's a child. Don't be obscene." he lit more candles to better examine her foot.

 _But she's older than Christine.._ the flames whispered. Erik winced.

Grabbing a bandage, Erik carefully pulled Meg's foot from beneath the sheet. His fingers nimbly probed the foot and ankle, feeling for any fractures. He noted swelling but it seemed unremarkable. It was likely just a sprain. She was lucky.

"Oh yes, she is lucky." he choked back a snort. What woman could be luckier than to be lying naked beneath the earth with the Phantom of the Opera?

He finished wrapping the ankle, tightening the ends of the bandage for compression and pulled the linen sheet back over her foot.

Erik pinched out the flames, leaving one candle burning low near the head of the cot. Dry and snugly tucked in, she still shivered, her chattering teeth making the only noise.

He settled back onto the small stool, uncomfortably hunched over, like a tall Quasimodo. It was time to leave the Paris Opera. The authorities and half the theatre staff knew he was down here; not a ghost to be feared but a man to be destroyed. Several of them even knew where to find his home. How long would it be before unwelcome adventurers grew bored with invading the cellars, looking for the Opera Ghost? Erik slowly rubbed his temples. There was nowhere to go.

"But I should go now." Erik glanced at the invalid, her shivers already beginning to subside. "I can't leave her here." he watched the light flicker weakly across her perfect face. "Yes, Erik can leave her here. She's not Erik's problem." The longer he remained, the greater the risk he would be captured. If she regained consciousness before he returned her to the surface, she could run to the authorities once she was free.

A small feather pillow appeared in Erik's hands, though he would never be able to say how. Sometimes, he seemed magical even to himself. This would be quick, even merciful and Erik congratulated himself on such a simple solution. The pillow fit so neatly in his hand, his long bony fingers looked claw-like in the candlelight.

Death was easy and he was the _Angel_ of Death.

Erik frowned at the gnawing sensation in his chest. When had he last eaten?

The pillow darkened her face but still he hesitated. So easy. So quick. She would know nothing.

He had never hesitated before.

A flash of memory: a pretty young girl, alone in the cellars, dancing. Every move and every gesture suggested grace, her dark brown eyes shone like stars in the night sky. She paused in her dance, feeling his presence and although he would swear he could not be seen, she stretched out a slender arm and offered her hand to him, with the gentlest smile he had ever known.

Erik dropped the pillow as if it had burned him and dropped to the floor at her side with a sob.

"Forgive, cricket. Forgive poor, unhappy Erik. He is a wretched creature." Unclasping the dark heavy cloak from around his neck, he laid it reverently over her pathetic form.

The deeper shadows of the room beckoned to him and Erik removed himself to the furthest corner. Curling up on the cold floor, hot tears rolled down his withered cheeks. Erik wrapped his arms tightly around his abdomen, trying to hold together his breaking heart. Decisions could wait until later.

Later.


	3. Chapter 3

Surrounded by fairy lights and veiled in mist, Meg spun across the vast stage of the Opera Populaire, propelled by an eerie tune she'd never heard before. She was alone, as though she was the Prima Ballerina and this was her solo number. A glance into the audience revealed only darkness.

Stretching out a graceful hand, another grasped hers, firm and cool, pulling her against a strong chest. The man, always out of sight, partnered her dance, never missing a move. Meg smiled serenely as she soared through the air, held firmly by her steady partner. The final strains of music died away and she turned to bow to the mystery dancer but there was only darkness and a silence broken only by the distant, steady dripping of water. Grey shapes gradually came into focus; a low burning candle cast hard shadows on hard grey walls. A gentle hand pressed a cool damp cloth to her forehead.

"Maman?" she croaked. If Madame Giry was nearby, she said nothing in reply. "Maman?" Meg rasped again, her voice breaking with agitation.

"Hush now, cricket." soothed the velvet darkness.

"Where is Maman?" she whimpered, trying to push herself up. The darkness caught her and held her firmly, pressing a cold metal cup to her lips.

"Drink." it breathed.

Cold water spilled down her throat, moistening her lips, restoring her voice. Meg drained the cup and it reappeared moments later, refilled. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light while she nursed the second cup of water, the shapeless darkness taking on the form of thin man, swathed in shadow. A seed of dread sprouted in her gut.

"Maman?" she tried again, glancing over the man's shadow.

"Your maman is not here."

 _"Where IS here?"_ The surroundings were as hazy as her memories. The thin man pressed her back onto the cot with little effort and turned away, rummaging around the room, once she had settled.

The space felt small and cramped. Fear crept over her breast like creeping vine. Meg realized that she could remember little of the events after Christine had vanished before all of Paris, kidnapped mid-opera by the phantom composer. Raoul pursued them, aided by her mother.

She had tried to follow them.

Meg frowned. _"But why?"_

Bone biting cold and crazy brittle laughter flooded over her and Meg drew in a sharp breath, cut short by a cold hand clamped hard over her mouth.

"No screaming, little one." his voice was soft but the command was unmistakable. "We do not know who may be listening." his grip loosened slowly and once he felt certain that Meg would not scream he withdrew.

Now adjusted to the weak light, Meg could see the opera ghost perched on a small stool at her bedside. He was much thinner than she had imagined without the bulk of his evening cloak. She realized the beautiful black garment was draped over her. It was silk lined and smooth between her fingers. Smells of the damp earth and sweet spices filled her nose; the scent of the opera ghost. It was strangely soothing.

 _"Focus, Meg..."_ she scolded. She remembered falling, wrenching her ankle.. and swimming through icy water like a damn fool. Had she really done all that just to reach the Phantom's lair? The throbbing in her ankle told her that she had. But she was feeling quite dry and the ankle had been bound. Beneath opera cloak and linen sheet, Meg was as naked as the day she had been born. Had he stripped her of her wet clothing and bound the ankle? Meg could feel the blood rising in her cheeks.

"Your honour has not been compromised, cricket." the phantom quietly answered her unspoken question.

"I never thought that you..." she trailed off, too embarrassed to even verbalize the suggestion.

"Why not? A monster is capable of heinous things."

"You are not a monster." her voice sounded small when she wished she had sounded more certain.

"You are a fool if you honestly believe that."

"Then I am a fool." she shifted nervously under his sharp eyed scrutiny. Christine had told her that the Phantom was no specter, but a man, a brilliant man, hideous to look upon but brilliant to the point of madness. Meg felt as though he could turn her to ash with the force of his gaze; she was the singular object of his intense focus and she would simply crumble to dust.

"What happened?" she finally asked, desperate to break the silence and perhaps shift his focus away from her even for a moment.

"I was hoping you would tell me." he had moved the stool and was very close. His yellow eyes were hard like topaz sunken in his skull. Meg gave a little cry; the phantom wore no mask.

 _"Because it is in your bag, you nit wit_."

"Are you afraid of Erik's face, little cricket?" his voice was calm but his thin twisted lip curled in an approximation of a sneer.

Meg took a calming breath and looked carefully at the ruin of the phantom's - Erik's - face. There was a flicker of uneasiness in his eyes but he let her look. His right cheek bore the worst of whatever had made him this way, the skin wrinkled, grey and lifeless. His nose was poorly formed and thin strands of wispy hair, white as snow, grew sparsely on the top of his head. There were no eyebrows perched above his sunken eyes. The deformities didn't extend through the entire face to the same degree, but it was not handsome. Erik, she decided, was ugly, but that was all.

"No, Maestro. I am not afraid. I was merely surprised."

Erik was quiet for a moment, seemingly weighing the truth in her words.

"You followed me." he stated. "Why?"

Meg looked away into the darkness, nervous. She could die down here and no one but Erik would know what happened.

"I haven't decided whether to kill you, little one." his voice was harsh and brittle. "Speak."

Composing herself as best she could under the stony gaze, Meg tried to recount her steps as well as she could, hoping it would be enough.

"I followed my mother and the Vicomte."

Erik tensed at the mention of his rival but nodded his head slightly: _Go on_.

"I _tried_ to follow, anyway. But my mother forbade me." Meg paused to cough and Erik moved to refill the water cup, helping her to sit up again, hovering while she drank. "Thank you." she murmured, jumping a little when her fingers brushed his as she handed back the cup.

"Your mother forbade you to follow and you disobeyed." it wasn't a question.

"I came another way. I didn't know how to find my way exactly. I kept heading down."

"The courageous ballet rat; it sounds like an opera." Erik mocked. "And the mob?"

"Mob?" she blinked.

"You stuttered out something about a mob." Erik snipped.

"The theatre was on fire.." Set by the Phantom, they both knew. "They followed after maman."

"You _chose_ to follow after _her-_ " He must have meant Christine.

" _No_. You. I followed after you."

"You followed me into the depths of a burning building?" there was edge incredulity in his voice, confusion in his eyes. Erik couldn't understand her actions or her concern for him. Meg didn't understand it either.

"I wanted to warn you." she said lamely.

"Warn me of what? You made your choice before that mob made theirs."

Meg opened her mouth and promptly shut it. What could she say to him that he could possibly believe? That she couldn't bear the guilt of her friend's betrayal? She imagined that Erik had very little idea of compassion or kindness. " _I'm so.._ _so_ _sorry.. "_ she winced. Erik was not a young man, he was well acquainted with the fear and loathing of the world. He would not want her pity.

"At a loss now, little Giry?" his eyes glinted with disdain.

"Meg. My name is Meg." she replied calmly, levelly meeting the unnerving stare. She leaned over the edge of the cot slowly, her eyes still locked on his. He sat very still but his left hand twitched ever so slightly. _"Hurry before he kills you."_ Meg grabbed the damp strap of her satchel and sat back up. She withdrew the mask from within and let the bag fall back to the floor. Hesitantly, she reached for his face. Erik flinched but did not withdraw; fear and suspicion were etched into his features. Meg cupped the side of his face gently, tracing the unhappy lines lightly with her thumb. He sat so still she thought he had stopped breathing.

"Not a ghost, not a dream." she whispered to herself.

"No." he sighed.

"Thank you." she kissed her fingers and pressed that kiss to his cheek. Meg offered the white leather mask to the dumbfounded phantom, who took it and turned away from her bewildering kindness.

A loud rumble of protest broke the silence and Erik faced here again, now masked, blinking slowly, and coming back from wherever his mind had gone. Her stomach had made its grievance known. He sat even straighter, in command and looking every inch the terrifying phantom. He leaned forward to check her temperature.

"You are still warm, cricket. Perhaps you should rest."

She lay back down, pulling her covers up to her chin. Erik turned to go.

"Are you leaving me, Maestro?" her voice wavered with alarm. The sensible part of her should be glad of him going, perhaps she could find a way out before he returned. _"But I have no clothes."_ Dangerous as he was, the only way she would leave here would be through his aid. _"And he's more than a little bit fascinating."_ She argued with herself.

"You are hungry, cricket." he reminded her. "Rest now."

Then he was gone, melting into the shadows, walking through the wall and Meg was all alone in the darkness.

* * *

Dreams filled with flames and horrid Wagnerian opera ended abruptly at the guillotine, her head rolling away before being tossed into a full basket with a thud - Meg woke with a start, shivering from a cold sweat. Erik had returned from his errand. He dropped a soft nightgown onto the cot and set about serving up a small loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese.

"All is quiet out there, for now. I'll leave you to dress." he told her, disappearing before she could ask for any help. Still feeling woozy, Meg took her time getting to her feet. She yelped at the shock of cold of bare feet hitting the floor. The injured ankle ached angrily in protest. By all rights, she should have had assistance; he'd probably had enough of seeing her _déshabillé_. Nervous now that he would return before she was decent, Meg hobbled around as quickly as her light head and poor balance would allow. It was ridiculous for a ballerina to be so uncoordinated.

The nightgown was warm and soft, nicer than any of her gowns. Lace edged the cuffs and modest neckline.

"Christine.." she murmured, fingering the lace of one cuff of the pretty gown her friend would never wear. Once dressed, Meg slipped back under the makeshift covers and waited for the phantom to return.

Erik re-materialized almost immediately and brought over a plate with a slice of bread and chunk of cheese.

"It is not much." he apologized. "The cook was not expecting company."

Meg picked off a crumb of bread, slowly realizing that it had been a jest. She looked at him curiously. Drawn up to his full height, he cut an imposing figure even as thin as he was. Slicked back dark hair had taken the place of the white patchy hairs and the mask was securely in place. The Phantom wore a wig? Catching her eye, Erik gestured impatiently.

"Eat."

She tucked in, devouring the bread at an unladylike speed. Sensing Erik's amusement, Meg forced herself to slow down and savor the cheese. She chewed slowly, sneaking glances at the opera ghost. His posture was incredibly rigid, left hand still twitching. Did a mere girl really unnerve him so? Or was he in the middle of deciding her fate?

 _"I suppose he wouldn't know much about conversing with ladies."_ she thought wryly, recalling Christine's abductions through various trap doors. Definitely not a _flowers-and-bon-bons_ sort of phantom. Meg traced the dainty painted flowers of the plate, wondering what sort of suitor he _would_ make, given half of a chance. _"You stupid toad. He is a kidnapper and murderer and God knows what else. Do not let your sensibilities get away from you."_ The inner voice could not be denied.

The plate slipped from her hands and straight into Erik's. Meg gaped at him. She hadn't even seen him move.

"Can I trust you with the rest of my dishes?" he gave her a withering look and handed her a glass of wine.

"They're very lovely." she remarked, fighting down the rising blush.

"They were my mother's." he all but mumbled. "I'm not here to poison you." Erik said acidly, noticing Meg's hesitation in drinking the wine. "Poison is not my style." he told her with a dismissive wave of his elegant hand.

Meg shrank back and took a slow drink. The wine was sweet and heady, filling her belly and bones with warmth. Erik had resumed his perch on the stool next to her and they drank in almost companionable silence.

"Then what _is_ your style?" she ventured, the liquid courage kicking in. Erik said nothing, perhaps considering whether to answer.

"Nothing messy." he said finally.

"Poison is not messy."

"No, not for the person who administers it. But poison is a woman's weapon." Erik sneered, refilling their glasses. "If I were to kill you, little Giry, you would know, however briefly, that death was coming." his voice low and smooth like silk. Meg remained silent, her courage fading as quickly as it had come.

"You sought me out to warn me." it was not a question. Erik seemed like a man unaccustomed to asking many questions. "To warn me -" he scoffed. "- of a danger you were aware of only _after_ you decided to invade my home."

"Not invade, I was afraid -" she tried to protest.

"Then you came to the wrong place."

"Afraid of _Raoul_ and what he might do."

The phantom laughed, a sharp barking noise. "You feared for the wrong man, cricket. What could that child have done to me?"

"He was very angry." Meg looked everywhere but at Erik. Something about him felt very.. _changed_. The air around him felt sinister.

"I would imagine."

"He tried to capture you." "Yes, I was there." Erik replied dryly.

"He would have _killed_ for Christine."

Erik recoiled with a hiss at the sound of her name. The glass in Meg's hands trembled.

"As would I." he said flatly.

Meg drained her glass, her annoyance finally overcoming her fear of that arrogant man. "That _child_ had a pistol. You're not a _real_ ghost, you know?"

"It is hard to hit a moving target." Erik said simply.

"Are you always so insufferable?"

"Are _you_ always this impertinent?" Erik snatched her glass before she could turn it into a projectile and dared to quickly check her temperature before stepping out of her reach. "You are still very warm."

"From the wine." she protested.

"You should rest more." he urged, persuasion heavy in his voice.

"I want to go home." Meg huffed.

"Rest, cricket." he sang, sinking to her side.

"Stop that. I'm not -" a damp rag clamped over her mouth and nose, she struggled briefly and then slumped unconscious against his chest. Erik lay her down gently, tucking her in.

"You talk far too much, little gnat." he told her still form. He extinguished the candle, plunging the room into blackness.


	4. Chapter 4

For the second time, Meg slowly awoke to the world, trying to get her bearings. She was warm and comfortable, tucked neatly into a clean feather bed and propped up on proper goose feather pillows. The distant hum and clatter of life drifted in, it was comforting to be back with the world, to know that life was continuing and going on about its day.

"Meg?" a sweet voice, thick with worry, rippled through her growing awareness. The bedside figure was not the dark and lean opera ghost this time, but the lovely, diminutive soprano of his heart.

"Meg?" she asked again, leaning closer to her friend, squinting into the shadow over the bed.

Meg swatted weakly at her friend and tried to object to the disturbance. Sleep beckoned to her and from within the haze of her dreams, the phantom called to her: _Hide your face so the world will never find you_. She longed to obey. Christine held a glass of water to Meg's dry, cracking lips.

"I must get your mother, she will be so pleased you're awake." Christine tried to leave, to take the glass with her but Meg tightened her grip, giving the singer a hard look. "Or..I can stay here." she refilled the glass and resumed her seat. They remained in uncomfortable silence while Meg emptied the glass several times. Christine diligently refilled the water as required, but sat quietly, looking everywhere but at Meg. Shadows clung beneath her now-dull dark eyes and she seemed paler and nervous. Had the events in the underground lair shaken her so much?

Meg nibbled on the rim of the glass, contemplating that night, realizing that she knew very little of the details. Christine had rejected Erik but that said nothing about how she really felt about him and of her choice. Meg leaned over and set the glass down with a bang, smirking to herself when Christine jumped in her seat a little. Now was definitely not the time to ask her.

" _Now_ may I get your mother?" Christine tried again, apparently quite eager to be away from her now that Meg was awake.

"No. Not yet. I'm not exactly ready for my scolding." Meg pretended to study the beautiful molding, painted white, that ran around the pleasant room. Everything in the room seemed simple but the fabrics were rich, the furniture well-made. "Christine? Where are we?"

"At the Chagy mansion. Raoul's home."

Meg struggled not to make a face at the mention of the Vicomte, congratulating herself when she succeeded.

"Do you not remember coming here?"

"No, should I?" she blinked, taking in the fine cut of Christine's dress, the gems that shone dully at her throat. The trappings of a future Vicomtess. A good marriage, every girl's dream at the Populaire. Meg should have been jealous, but she wasn't. "I wouldn't even know how to find the Chagny home on my own."

"The servants found you asleep just inside the garden gate last night."

Meg absently traced the pattern of the coverlet. She had no answer. Christine had never told her where Raoul resided and Meg had never cared to ask. She knew how she had come there, of course. Erik had left her there, that was obvious, but she wasn't about to admit that. Did he also creep around to take a desperate, silent farewell of his leading lady?

"Where were you, Meg? You've been missing for days."

"Yes, _ma chère fille_ , where have you been?" Madame Giry, black as a shadow, sinister as a spider and infinitely more terrifying than the Phantom, stood in the doorway, leaning on her cane. Christine scrambled to the door and with a hurried curtsy, departed from the room. The door shut with a _click_. They were alone.

Meg warily watched her mother's slow progress around the. It was a tactic her mother had employed often in Meg's childhood and one Meg knew well. She eased herself into the chair that Christine had vacated and waited, her black eyes trained on her daughter.

"Marguerite." she began in a soft voice and then stopped, as if she were gathering her rage for the impending storm.

"Maman?"

"I recall -" she started again and then bit her lip in frustration. "No. I _forbid_ you to follow me into the cellars. You may be too old to be whipped but I expect obedience."

"How do you even know that I did follow you?"

Madame Giry jumped across the bed, slapping Meg's face. "Do you take your old Maman for a fool?" she hissed, her eyes flashing with barely concealed rage. She grabbed Meg's cheeks and pinched them hard with taloned fingers. "People _saw_ you, you idiot. You've been missing for days."

"But -"

"Found asleep in a garden and dressed in a _nightgown_? Any decent person would have sent word when they treated your foot." Madame Giry shoved her daughter's face away roughly and fell back into the chair.

"None of that proves anything-"

"You _reek_ of him, child." her mother barked. "I have spent _years_ doing his bidding. Did you not think I would know?"

Meg held her mother's angry gaze, silently battling her mother's rage with her own stubborn will.

"Do you have any idea of what he is capable of, _ma chere_? Piangi..Buquet.. have you not looked closely at Christine?"

She knew perfectly well what Erik was capable of and he had not let her forget it for a minute. It's not as though she had gone for a stroll along the Seine with him. But knowing it had not exactly guided her behavior.

 _"Why did you go to him in the first place, you fool?"_ the inner voice nagged.

"You seem no worse for wear." Madame Giry conceded, laying a gentle hand on her daughter's bandaged foot. "The Vicomte was kind enough to send for his physician - ah, no refusal." she admonished before Meg could protest. "But I expect you are mending if he returned you."

"Raoul and Christine-"

"Do not know where you were or with whom. Though I daresay Christine suspects. Raoul doesn't _want_ to know and would not listen even if we were to tell him."

"Why does Raoul hate him so?" Meg wondered softly, more to herself than to her mother.

"Love does dangerous things, Meg." they shared a look, both thinking of Erik. "If he was satisfied that you were well enough to return to me.." Madame Giry's eyes clouded with anxiety. The outcome could have been so much worse. "Then the physician is for appearances."

Meg sighed. "Yes, maman."

Her mother sighed and sat next to her on the bed, sinking into the covers. She suddenly looked older, her shoulders slumping slightly in defeat.

"Are you all right, maman?" Meg leaned forward, touching her mother gently.

"You have a good heart, my Marguerite. But he is a man, not an injured bird for you to nurse." Madame Giry gently squeezed her daughter's hand. "The Opera Ghost is not for you."

A deep ache bloomed in her chest. Everyone deserved someone to love them and she had love to spare. _"Dangerous or not, I could have learned to love him."_ she thought stubbornly. But he had been besotted with Christine, could she convince him to love her instead?

"Promise me, _mon petit_ , that you will not seek him out again."

"Maman, I - _AH! Mon Dieu_!" Meg's complaint cut off as her mother's gentle hand tightened, crushing Meg's fingers together.

" _Promise me_." she repeated, anger and fear heavy in every line of her face.

"I promise! I promise!" Meg whimpered, falling back into the pillows, cradling her crushed fingers to her chest. Madame Giry gave Meg one last, assessing look and, seeming satisfied that she could take Meg's word, swept silently from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N - My apologies for the lengthy wait between chapters. Summer holidays and family events have taken me away from this stubborn story.**

* * *

Though he had taken every precaution, Erik found leaving Paris easier than expected. The neighbourhood surrounding the theatre had been deserted the night he emerged from the cellars. The smell of smoke from the fire still hung heavy in the air. Most importantly, no one stood guard.

He traveled light, secreting money and valuables on his person, a cloth bag slung over his shoulder. He was unaccustomed to the plainer, itchier day clothes and he longed for the smooth fabrics of his opera dress. But the deep darkness of the countryside welcomed him like a long lost lover, quieting his superficial discomforts. After so many years underground, the outside world was a shock to his senses. Moving only by night, he stayed away from the main roads and kept to the forest, re-learning the world of nocturnal creatures, his brethren.

Erik gradually made his way to the coast reaching the port city of Le Havre in the pre-dawn hour. The rolling farmland gave way to a coastal clime and he breathed deeply, relishing the fresh salty air, his wilted spirits lifted just a little. For the first time in a very long time, Erik could see beyond his bruised and bitter heart into the future and not see the crushing loneliness of his recent years. The sea had brought him solace and the promise of adventure as a younger man and it could do it again. He was ready for a new life.

He confidently entered Le Havre in the early morning, heading straight to the docks with the intention of booking passage on the next available ship. Sailors and dock hands bustled about but all gave him a wide berth. A group of men loitered about near enormous shipping containers and one especially burly man gripped the local newspaper, the others stared at him.

"Bonjour, monsieur." the man with the newspaper called. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Erik's chest tightened. " _Non_ , monsieur. I do not believe so." he tried to steady his voice and calm both himself and the unwelcome man. But his breathing grew heavy and everywhere it felt like the people were now staring at him.

"Are you sure, monsieur?" the man sneered and started towards him, Erik glimpsed the blurry image of the Paris Opera on the front page and recoiled. The men laughed and turned away, their forward friend retreating to his place.

"They know who Erik is." he muttered, plowing blindly through the growing numbers of people. "Eyes everywhere, all of the eyes, seeing Erik unseen by Erik..Erik must hide." Fighting the desire to dive into the harbour, he forced himself to continue on despite the icy burn of a million eyes watching him. "Erik must hide."

Erik ducked into the first tavern he saw.

He leaned against the door for a moment, attempting to regain some calm. The tavern was empty save for the rough looking bar maid. She regarded Erik warily as she slowly wiped the same spot on the bar over and over. With renewed resolve, Erik tugged the front of his jacket to smooth it and strode to the table in the far corner. After a moment or two of obvious deliberation, the woman dropped the cleaning rag and sauntered over with a mug and a pitcher of ale.

"What can I get you, love?" she poured the ale and slid the cup over to him. Her tone suggested that she had no interest in what he would like.

"Just bread and some cheese, if you have it, madam." Erik pitched his voice lower, letting the sweetness wrap around her and settle. Her eyes widened in surprise and then she smiled at him; she bobbed a quick curtsy and hurried away to fulfill his request.

Erik settled with his back to the wall and studied the wood grain of the table. Anxiety still sat in a ball in his stomach but he could at least breath again. His stomach did not settle with the cold meats and bread she brought; the early morning sun poured through the dirty windows, dust motes floating gently to the nearest surface. Once away from the reach of his voice, the bar maid had resumed her wary surveillance. Erik picked the hard bread apart, his slender fingers deftly creating a tidy pile of crumbs.

 _"Wary bar maids are the least of my problems."_ Erik considered creating a tragic accident to explain away the mask. He tossed several coins onto the table and gave the woman a slight bow then slipped out. She could keep the change.

Erik continued his search and found the ticket offices without further incident

An uncomfortable line of questioning and several lies later, Erik had his one-way ticket to New York. The ship was not due to depart until sunset and he decided to rent a room, finding one at another tavern some distance from the waterfront. He needed to hide until it was time to leave. The low ceiling of the room made it uncomfortable to move about it, as tall as he was, but it was simple and clean; a suitable place to lie down and wait for departure .

The cloth bag sat next to him on the bed, containing the only things he had brought with him from the opera house: a single change of clothes, his black mask and a battered sheet of paper; an old composition, a lullaby he had written to sing to Christine years ago. She had loved it and asked for it often until -

"Until I had to ruin everything by falling in love with her." he muttered. "Will she sing it for her children?" Erik wondered, an image of Christine appeared unbidden, but this Christine had been softened by motherhood, and held a baby sleeping in her arms as she hummed the melody her Angel had written. The baby of Erik's imagination was perfectly formed, with a sweet nub of a nose and long eyelashes lay upon silken cheeks. A golden cloud of hair gave the baby a halo. Blonde hair like its father. _"Christine's children with the fop_." Erik re-folded the sheet music and tossed it back into the bag, willing himself not to cry. There had never really been a chance for love with Christine; no little children of their own. There would never be children for Erik in any life he could imagine.

Erik rubbed the fabric bag between his fingers, the smooth texture conjured the face of another woman, Meg Giry, the little cricket and night to Christine's day. His cheek still tingled where Meg had placed her kiss with two gentle fingers, willing and kind. A kindness he would hold in his heart. Erik wondered how the little Giry had fared upon her return to the world and fervently hoped she had kept silent. Though his heart had been softened by her kindness, it would had been safer to kill her But Erik did not kill little girls.

" _Women_.. Erik would not kill women." he corrected, his face growing hot beneath the mask.

None of it mattered now. When the afternoon began to wane toward sunset, Erik returned to the docks to the ship. The crew eyed him suspiciously and then hesitantly tore his ticket in half and after another heart stopping minute, allowed him on board. Other passengers drew away from him, clutched their children or their sweethearts closer but mostly left him alone. It would be a long week or so at sea if they raised the ire of the scary masked man. Erik stood at the railing as they departed, watching the French coastline slowly disappear as they sailed out of the harbour. He took a deep, cleansing breath, filling his lungs to brim with the salty sea air. As he exhaled slowly, Erik visualized ripping up his past like ruined composition paper, throwing every memory of the Paris Opera, Christine and his love for her into the ocean, to lie forgotten forever beneath the waves.

* * *

Meg clenched her jaw and attempted to keep calm as Christine's lady's maid twisted and yanked Meg's unruly hair into submission, jabbing hair pins in as she went.

 _"One might think that Aimee does not like me."_ she thought ruefully, gazing at her pale reflection in the mirror, trying to center herself. She was sorely tempted to slap the maid and twist _her_ hair. Aimee did not like anyone, if Christine were to be believed. Particularly trashy actresses who pretended far above their station. A hostile maid aside, life at the Chagny mansion was quiet though tense. Meg longed for the day she and her maman could leave.

 _"And when I can do my own hair again."_ she grumbled as Aimee jabbed in the final pins and gave her head a pat.

"Mademoiselle." the maid bobbed a small curtsy and vanished before she could say anything. Meg deflated, slumping forward to lean on the dressing table. That longed for day would be soon as Madame Giry had secured them positions at a dance school on the outskirts of Paris. Her maman had danced there as a young girl, years ago, and seemed happy for the chance to return. It also provided a small apartment at the school in exchange for looking after the boarders. Butterflies fluttered in Meg's chest when she thought of being an instructor but getting away from the Chagny's seemed like a promise of paradise. As dearly as she loved Christine, if Meg had to give her opinion on one more place setting or another fabric swatch, she would scream. " _Please, dear God, do not let me act like that when I am engaged_." Meg sighed. _"Time for breakfast."_

She trudged heavily down the stairs on purpose, tired of being graceful and light. It took way too much energy to be the delicate dancer all of the time. Her ankle had mostly healed and following breakfast she would spend the late morning much as she had every morning since the physician's all clear: running positions at the barre her mother had devised. Meg rounded the corner into the breakfast room, muttering her good mornings as she went straight to the sideboard, loading up a plate of whatever. She hadn't paid much attention to what she'd been eating lately. She really didn't care, the chewing prevented the others from talking to her much. She had been sleeping poorly. Erik haunted her dreams last night as he had every night since she awoke here.

There was a peculiar flutter in her chest when she thought of her time underground. He had seemed so startled by her kiss though it was not a real kiss and she wanted to know how it would be to kiss him for real. Chloroform aside, he had been the perfect gentleman with her.

She stuffed her mouth with cold ham and glanced up at her breakfast companions. Raoul sat at the head of the table, his face grave but his blue eyes shone with triumph. Christine had gone white, her brown eyes dull, she had lost any of her usual animation.

"It is him?" Christine whispered. Madame Giry's hand lay upon hers in sympathy, though herself perfectly composed and serene. Meg chewed slowly and gave her mother a questioning look. Madame Giry shook her head slightly. _"Not now."_

"I'm sorry, I'm not feeling quite well." Christine said so quietly Meg had to stop chewing to hear her. Her friend rose from her seat and left the room, Raoul excused himself hastily and followed her out. Meg swallowed.

"What was that about?" she asked while reaching for the biscuits. Madame Giry slid a page from the morning newspaper across the table to her and snatched the biscuit from her hand.

"You have been eating too much."

Meg glared at her mother and looked down at the paper, skimming its contents. She saw nothing out of the ordinary until she reached the bottom. It jumped out like a jack-in-the-box.

 **Erik is dead.**

She swore that her heart had stopped but fought for a calm expression in front of her mother, who was watching her very closely.

"Erik? _Our_ Erik is dead?"

" _Oui._ " Madame Giry folded the page neatly and slipped it into a dress pocket. She seemed far too satisfied.

Disbelief descended over Meg. "This is really true?" her mother nodded slowly and rose to leave the table.

"I'm not going to ask how you know this for certain. But I don't believe you."

"Meg -" her mother warned.

"No! I don't! This is absurd." Meg looked regretfully at her half eaten breakfast. Her enthusiasm had evaporated. "I fear my eyes were larger than my stomach. Excuse me, maman." she mumbled, quickly leaving the table and hurrying back to her bedroom, ignoring her mother calling after her.

Erik was dead.

Erik _is_ dead.

 _Entirely_ dead.

It couldn't be true.

Meg sank onto the bed, hugging herself tightly. Her vision seemed grainy, the patterns and colours in the oriental rug swimming and twisting before her eyes. Her heart ached terribly.

 _"You promised to never seek him again, Meg Giry."_

And she had mostly intended to keep that promise. But Meg had not counted on seeing Erik in her dreams every night; and every day, every corner contained him and every shadow was him.

"What a damn waste." she stomped her foot on the floor, sending a stack of books on the floor toppling over. The tears came quickly, fat and salty and dripping from her chin. She was still skeptical but still she wept, for all of the music he would never write. Her mother had was lying, she must had been responsible for that announcement in the paper. Who else but she would have known his name? Christine would not have done it, would have never thought of it. Meg pulled on her boots and angrily laced them up. Erik's existence seemed to be God's cosmic joke. With the gifts he had been given, Erik should have commanded the admiration of all of them. But his face was twisted, branded with a demon's kiss, dooming him to the fringes. "Are you laughing now, God?" Meg glared at the sun pouring in the windows. In a flash, she slipped into the hallway and down the stairs and out the front door before anyone noticed.

Meg marched through the city without a concrete idea of where to but eventually found her way to Rue Scribe, a place she had tailed her mother to before.

The journey to the lake was much easier via the Rue Scribe thank through the levels of the theatre. Her belly roiled with the dread of expectation, there were certain to be traps along the way to deter the curious, but the walk was uneventful and she emerged in the echo-y cistern. The shore was as gloomy as she remembered it and utterly silent; a small boat bobbed gently in the water on the near shore.

"Maestro?" Meg called, her voice dying far across the water. "Erik?"

Meg climbed into the boat and awkwardly began rowing across. "I'm a dancer, not an oarsman." she huffed, gradually propelling the craft to the far shore. She found a lantern beneath the seat and lit it with the matches she had brought with her. The acrid smell of smoke greeted her arrival and she hopped onto the shore. After a moment to catch her breath, Meg slipped into the house on the lake to be greeted by splintered furniture and scattered books; pages torn, wall hangings ripped and burned. Shattered glass littered the hallways and other rooms and white feathers from the mattresses and pillows fluttered as she passed.

"Erik?" she called again, moving through the underground home, her heart growing heavier with each step.

 _"Could Maman have been telling the truth?"_

Returning to the sitting room she sank to the piano bench, one of the few pieces still intact in the ruined room. She set the lantern next to her and examined the floor in front of her. Sheet music written in a childish hand was strewn at her feet, some pages crumpled and others with scorch marks. Meg picked up a few pages, caressing the paper lightly, as though it could connect her to the composer.

"Well that's unfortunate." she murmured, rubbing at the blots of red ink at the bottom of the last page. Meg spun around and placed the pages upon the piano, plunking slowly at the melody line. More blots of ink were splattered over the lower octaves of the keyboard. Her forehead creased in a frown.

 _"This isn't ink.._ "

She leaped away from the piano so quickly the bench fell over, taking the lantern with it. The sheet music fluttered to the floor.

"Blood." Meg squeaked, snatching up the lantern before she began another fire. Her eyes darted around, finding more of the dark splotches on the Persian rug.

 _"This is his blood?"_ she sank to the floor like a stone, her eyes burned fiercely but the tears would not come this time. If Erik were dead, then why was there not more blood? Even she knew there would be more in a man's body than what was here. _"Let him go, Meg. Dead or run away, give him peace."_

She gathered up the fallen music and slipped the folded paper into her skirt pocket. There would be no more of the Phantom's strange and haunting music. At least not here in Paris. Meg took a deep breath and wandered out to the shore. Erik would not want her to stay and weep for him anyhow.

Dead. Whether he was or not, Meg needed to convince herself that he was gone.

 _"Dead to me.. he is dead to me.. Erik is dead._ "

She rowed away from the house on the lake and made the trek to the surface slowly.

 _"You cannot love a ghost, Giry."_

Erik was dead and with one last aching _thump_ , Meg's heart died too.

 **** End of PART ONE ****


	6. Ten Years Later

**Ten years later:**

The swirl of sumptuous silks, satin and lace filled the grand entrance of the old Paris Opera, jewels glittered in glow of the electric light. Meg held her mask to her face and drank in the sight, swaying gently in time to the music. She would never tire of the New Year's gala.

Beside her stood the Comtess de Chagny, Christine, presiding over the opulent proceedings with flushed pink cheeks and shining eyes, taking obvious pleasure in the magnificence of her party. Having assumed control of the opera company five years ago, the Chagny's enthusiastic guidance had transformed the outmoded Paris Opera into the elegant Paris Ballet. It had mostly been overseen by Christine, at whose insistence Raoul purchased the ailing operation.

"Can you believe we're here, Meg?" Christine breathed excitedly, grabbing Meg's hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. These celebrations had been more muted in recent years; tonight was like a glorious return to the past.

Meg peered over the top of the pink and gold domino mask and smiled. "I know. I can scarcely believe it." she responded, uncertain if Christine could hear her over the swell of the orchestra. They shared many fond memories of past galas as young ballet rats, mostly of sneaking in and sitting beneath the buffet tables, swiping food and forbidden champagne. Now Christine was hostess and reigned as a benevolent queen in silver crepe. The gentle swell of her belly made her look more like a mother goddess, Meg thought.

She and Madame Giry had stayed on after the opera company had broken up, to assist in the transition in any capacity they could though they had not planned to stay long. In those days, her mother often spoke of taking her to America to dance there, feeling that Paris no longer held any promise for them. Five years on, Madame Giry had retired from striking fear into young ballerinas hearts. But Meg was still dancing and finally poised to become prima ballerina that winter season. Her stomach flip flopped; the new prima was to be selected that evening.

 _"What if I'm not chosen?"_

"It seems like a lifetime ago that we were dancing to the new chandelier." Christine's voice broke into Meg's anxious thoughts.

"It _is_ a marvelous party." Meg answered non-noncommittally, remembering, as her patroness was, the night that Red Death descended into the party. "Have you chosen any names for the baby?" she feigned interest in the contents of her glass, hoping her silence on the topic would steer Christine's mind back to the present. It had been an unspoken agreement among them, Meg, Madame Giry and Raoul, that talking of the phantom would only be detrimental to Christine. She had ached to talk about Erik with her friend for a long time after, to beg Christine to sing some of his music for her. But she resisted and was well practiced in avoiding that ghost of their shared past.

"I've a few that I like but none that I've told Raoul yet." Christine's face dimpled. Meg returned the smile and gently touched her friend's rounded belly. Ten years of marriage and four golden children had softened once tight lines in Christine's form but she was still undeniably beautiful. Meg felt a small pang of envy.

"I cannot wait to meet her." Meg drained her champagne and snatched another glass from a passing waiter.

"Her?" Christine arched an eyebrow.

"It's just a feeling I have." she shrugged. Among her hopes, Meg hoped that the Chagnys would finally choose her to be a godmother. A dancer had not been good enough for the young viscount and his younger brother nor had Raoul acceded when the two girls came along. But a fifth child, surely, it could finally be Meg's turn.

"Meg." Christine had stepped closer and spoke low into her ear. "If anything should happen -"

" _Nothing_ is going to happen, dearest." Meg reassured, sounding more confident than she felt. The last confinement had been hard on Christine and she knew the doctors had urged the couple that little Camille should be their last child. But Christine couldn't say no to Raoul, no more than he could to her. _"In most things anyway."_

"I know." Christine gently rubbed her belly. "But you know what the physician said.. I need you to take care of them Meg, if I am gone."

"Take care of them?" she blinked. "I imagine Raoul would have that all in hand."

"Please, Meg. Love them in my stead?" Christine twisted the wedding ring on her finger. "And Raoul. He will need someone to look after him."

"You have a chateau full of servants to look after Raoul." Meg deflected; her stomach churned wildly. Too much champagne.

 _"Or not enough. Is she asking me to take her place? I don't even like Raoul all that much."_

Looking into Christine's wide blue eyes was like swimming into an ocean of worry and Meg could feel her resolve begin to crumble. "I will do what I can for them. And I will do as much as he will allow."

"Thank you." Christine crushed Meg in her arms while Meg tried to rein in the contents of her stomach.

"Ladies." the Comte de Chagny's voice boomed over the music and Christine broke from their embrace.

"Darling!" she stood upon tip toes to plant a kiss on her husband's cheek. Raoul handed them each another champagne flute. Meg hid her green face behind the mask.

"I'd like to propose a toast." Raoul raised his glass and Christine quickly followed suit. "To the Paris Ballet's new _prima ballerina_." he declared, staring at Meg. "Well deserved, _mademoiselle_."

"As if there were any doubt." Christine bubbled and clinked her glass to Meg's.

"I am honoured _monsieur_. I hope to do you credit." she murmured, lifting the glass to her lips and cursing herself for her subdued manner in what was supposed to be a joyful moment. Heaven knows she had worked hard and waited long enough for it. The Chagnys did not seem to notice, however, wrapped in one another's arms and each lost in the other's eyes. What if something did happen to Christine? Could Meg really love him in her place?

 _"You already know the answer to that."_ her eyes searched the deepening shadows in the grand hall, longing to see its darkest shadow, but he had been banished years ago.


	7. Chapter 7

She had been dancing for days, for weeks, it seemed like an eternity. Her muscles burned and her feet bled and a small part of her wanted nothing but a nap, a very long nap. But the ballet was new, the music sumptuous and lush and dancing as Aurora in _The Sleeping Beauty_ was one of the hardest things she had ever done. Meg loved every moment of it.

Weak afternoon sunlight dappled the floorboards of the modest flat she shared with her mother. It was a rare afternoon off but much too cold for her to take the air outside. They had never returned to live in the opera dormitories after the fire but Madame Giry would not have them too far away. The apartment was clean and snug, with a small stove for cooking and heat, a sitting room and a small water closet between their bedrooms.

 _"And only a ten minute walk to the theatre so it will almost be as good as living there."_ Meg thought ruefully as she laid out afternoon tea for herself and her mother. She would have loved to have a small garden to tend and sit in but that was a luxury they could not afford on her wages. The nearby Tuileries Garden would have to be enough for her.

The slow percussive _thunk_ of a cane heralded Madame Giry's approach and Meg stood, quietly waiting for her mother to take her seat at their small table. Though still a striking looking woman, the years had not been kind to her mother's body and the dampness of winter inflamed her joints. Meg did what she could to ease the burden but Madame Giry had always been proud and the growing infirmity made her snippy.

"This is lovely, _ma chere_." Madame Giry wrapped her hands around the steaming tea cup while Meg lightly buttered the croissants. She smiled tightly, wondering what her mother wanted. Madame Giry was not viciously critical but rain drops fell from the sky more often than compliments dropped from her mother's lips.

"Are you in rehearsal again tonight?"

Meg nodded. "There are a few things they want to run with the crew, scenery changes and the like, while the dancers are on stage."

"Is that not what a technical rehearsal is for?"

"Yes but I know I would feel better if they had a better idea of where things are going before we reach those rehearsals." Meg picked at her croissant, popping small pieces into her mouth. Her mother had committed the rehearsal schedule to her iron trap of a memory weeks ago, this was just her way of moving onto an uncomfortable topic. "Christine will be there tonight as well."

Madame Giry's brows knitted together. "Her time is not far off, should she not be resting?"

"She insists to Raoul and I that she has never felt better and truth is she does look quite well."

" _Ma petit._ " her mother began, her lips pursed the way she always did when she anticipated an argument.

Meg shifted her gaze to the brooch at the base of her mother's throat. _"Here it comes."_

" _Mon petit_ , I am .. very.. proud of you." Madame Giry's hands shook just a little. "Could not be more proud."

 _"Are compliments really so hard, maman?"_

"I think.." Madame Giry carefully sipped her tea. "It is time you thought of being married."

There it was. It had taken her mother longer to get to the point than in the past. The last mention of it had been on her twenty-fifth birthday; it had been an awful fight and the memory still rankled. Meg and she met her mother with a hard stare. Madame Giry was not wrong; a daughter nearing thirty should have been many years married by now, and Madame Giry should have been surrounded by grandchildren. But Meg had neither the time nor inclination for courting or falling in love. That part of her heart had been sealed shut a long time ago.

" _Maman_ -" Meg began but her mother held up her hand to silence her.

"Listen to me, Meg." she tactfully ignored her daughter's huff of annoyance. "You will not dance forever and I do not think you will want to dance forever. We will not have Christine's kindness forever either. I would rest easier in knowing that you were settled and cared for after I am gone."

"Are you really talking about death again?" Meg snapped. She did not want to think about death.

"Watch your tone." her mother admonished and Meg hung her head. "I have the names of a couple of fine gentlemen that I would like to introduce you to."

"We do not know any fine gentleman, _maman_ , how could we possibly obtain these introductions?"

"The Comte de Chagny and Christine proposed their names and will initiate the acquaintance in the appropriate manner."

Meg stared at her mother aghast. "You asked _them_ to find me a husband I _do not want_?"

"Who better to introduce you to wealthy gentlemen than a wealthy gentleman?" Madame Giry asked, ignoring the dark look from her daughter. "You know I am right, Marguerite." her mother's voice was dangerously calm. Meg stood abruptly, the napkin on her lap fluttering to the floor in a shower of crumbs.

"I need to go." she declared. "Before it grows much darker." Meg hurried around the room lighting lamps to compensate for the dying winter sun. How dare her mother corner her like this! Meg ripped her heavy cloak from its hook and tugged the hood tightly over her head and around her face. "I will be home late." she said flatly, her hand on the doorknob.

"He is dead, Marguerite." her mother said softly. "You cannot end your life a spinster for a childish infatuation."

"Can't I?" she cried.

"You _will_ take this seriously, _ma petit_. The time for your selfishness has long passed."

Tears burned Meg's eyes but she would not let her mother see her cry. There had been too many tears for Erik since his death. She dropped a slight curtsy to her mother. " _Maman_." she whispered hoarsely and swept from the flat, thundering down the staircase in a most ungraceful way and all but threw herself out the door into street, gulping a lungful of the cold Paris air. Meg leaned against the icy stone of their building, her chest tight with panic and unshed tears. Could her mother force her into a marriage she did not wish for? Meg knew she could; once Madame Giry had set her mind on something, the best anyone could do was scramble out of her way.

"Stop being so silly, Marguerite." she scolded herself through chattering teeth. There was never anything for her to mourn, no passionate lover lost, just unrequited love for an imagined phantom. The reality of the man was unknown to her but she couldn't let it go. Despair hung heavy like stone on her heart; Meg would rather die than try to love another.

The wind rustled the bottom of her cloak, icy fingers of air grasping at her ankles. Meg took one last calming breath, squared her shoulders and set off for the Opera Garnier, ready to set herself aside and spend a few hours as a cursed princess with a happy ending.


	8. Chapter 8

When the stage was awash with music Meg could forget everything but intricate footsteps and graceful poses. In rehearsal, she was sixteen again, ebullient and full of hope. As tiring as it was, the end of rehearsal usually came with a little sadness. She smiled at the four princes as they greeted her one by one, briefly taking her hand to lift to their lips but ostensibly to briefly steady her as she balanced _en pointe._ The out of tune rehearsal piano clanged on and while she was dancing, Meg could even forget that.

The music stopped abruptly and her spirit sank a little. Meg took her place at the edge of the stage in front of the assembled company, trying to sit gracefully in her tutu; it was time for notes. She listened carefully for a few minutes but her attention quickly drifted to Christine, seated in the fourth row, her expression intense. Meg studied her more closely.

 _"Maman is right that Christine should be resting. Not here at all hours. There's no need."_ Meg stretched her legs out in front of her, sighing with relief. _"I wonder if maman would mind if I had a hot bath."_ Baths were an undertaking and if she wanted hot water, she had to boil it herself. The assembled dancers drifted away in groups and the rehearsal pianist had closed the lid of that wretched instrument. Another night over; Meg stifled a yawn.

"Christine!" she called, waving for the other woman's attention. Christine's hands rested on her swollen belly, her head turned in profile, lovely in spite of the dark circles under her eyes. Meg followed her distant gaze toward the darkened boxes. Not boxes, only Box Five. _His_ box. "Christiiiine!" she warbled, waving her arms wildly over her head until Christine turned sad blue eyes on her.

"Shall I give you a ride home, dearest?"

"Yes, _please_." she divested herself of her pointe shoes and climbed to her feet. Aurora was tucked away for another night, leaving plain old Meg Giry in her place. "I'll join you out front?" Meg was already flying through the wings on her way to her dressing room, the thoughts of a hot bath and cozy bed had reinvigorated her.

She was changed and skipping down the grand marble staircase to the Changy's waiting carriage outside in less than ten minutes. The footman handed her in and she settled in across from Christine and pulled her cloak tighter.

"I thought we might go for a little drive before I take you home?" Christine asked as the carriage lurched forward at her gentle knock. "I hoped to go to the Bois but it is a little far and your mother would have a fit."

The women drove in companionable silence, each gazing out at the dimly lit world of Paris at night. Even though Meg and her mother had parted badly, she really wanted to be at home and not rolling around the cobblestone streets but something in Christine's voice had silenced any dissent.

"He used to take me for drives along the Bois." Christine broke the fallen hush.

 _"He? Oh- she means Erik."_ Meg sighed inwardly; there was no diverting Christine sometimes.

"They were quiet rides but I loved them. He never said a word and I was too hungry for the outside world, even if it was late at night."

"That seems so - ordinary." she remarked, no longer wanting to curb the topic of conversation. Her heart hungered for information to flesh out the Opera Ghost in her mind.

"I think ordinary was all he ever wanted." Christine murmured, twisting the gold band around on her finger. Her gaze was still fixed on the slowly passing scenery, such as it was. "He wanted a living wife, a little wife to call his own and take out for a drive on Sundays."

 _"I could have been that little wife."_ Meg thought ruefully, knowing that it was Christine and not she who the Phantom had set his heart on.

Pale yellow light from the gas lamps cast gentle shadows along the walks and in bare trees lining the street.

 _"We must be near the Tuileries."_ Meg thought, though she honestly had no clue.

"I take it that the drives stopped awhile before _Don Juan_ premiered." she observed. Christine only nodded and Meg lapsed back into silence, waiting for the next tidbit.

"Raoul saw us one night and chased after the carriage. I returned very shortly after." Christine clutched at the beaded reticule next to her and with a little nod, reached in and withdrew a long flat rope.

 _"Rope is not flat, you idiot."_

The carriage rolled on into the neighbourhood near the Giry flat, she felt a flash of annoyance; she was dog tired and Christine drove her out here to show her a piece of rope?

"He gave this to me during my time with him.." she leaned forward and pushed the item into Meg's hands. It was cool and smooth; a silk ribbon, that shone blood red in the street light. "I want you to have it, Meg and perhaps wear it in your hair on opening night?"

"Are you certain?" Meg whispered, rather stunned by the gesture, rubbing the silk greedily between her finger and thumb. Silk he had touched. _"A connection to Erik."_

Christine nodded forcefully, in an effort to convince Meg, or maybe herself. "Raoul would never let me keep it if he noticed, if he knew. The opera house feels very empty without our ghost."

The carriage had come to a stop in front of the flat but Meg made no move to jump out. She slipped the ribbon into a hidden pocket inside her cloak.

"I will wear it with pleasure, for you." she promised, noticing for the first time the lines at the corners of Christine's eyes and the tight line of her lips. Meg placed a light kiss on her friend's cold cheek. "You do not look well, Christine. _Please_ rest, promise me. We can manage a few days without you."

The ballet could manage every day, all of the days, without Christine's presence. There were dozens of capable and talented people in their employ. That's why Christine had employed them in the first place. The carriage door swung open and the footman waited patiently to hand Meg out to the sidewalk.

Christine gave her a faint smile. "I promise. You shall not see me for at least a day."

"It had better be for more than one day." Meg warned, taking the footman's gloved hand and descending to the street. "Sleep well, darling." she waved to her friend and hurried inside, eager to warm up by the stove and hopeful her mother would not be inclined to argue.


	9. Chapter 9

True to her word, Christine had stayed away and even managed to keep away for more than a day. Rehearsals continued and soon enough, opening night had arrived. Congratulatory bouquets of hot house flowers and prettily wrapped presents poured in for the ballerinas before the curtain even rose. The glut of roses that had filled her small dressing room had been cleared out, Meg distributing bunches to the young girls of the corps de ballet, much to their delight. The scent of the roses still hung heavy in her room but only six white blooms in a crystal vase remained; a token from some duke or another, hoping to spend some quality time with the new principal dancer.

"They're going to be sorely disappointed." she muttered, fixing her hair, carefully pushing pins into the thick tresses. "But that's no reason to not enjoy the flowers." finally satisfied, she moved from the dressing table to the divan in the corner and curled up.

The old divan she'd rescued from storage in the second cellar. She could hardly believe it hadn't been cleared out after the fire though the flames never spread past the first cellar. Among the quiet dusty dark where she used to dance by herself, the divan had waited for her. Of course, it was hopelessly out of date and the scene-shifters, who had lugged it to her dressing room, regaled her with elaborate descriptions of its hideousness. Meg didn't care; it was comfortable.

Familiar comfort was what she strove for in decorating her first dressing room. Meg had passed on La Sorelli's former space for she had no plans to entertain gentlemen after the performance. She chose a small room a little out of the way of the main thoroughfare, like Christine had during her time as diva. An old rug from home, threadbare throw cushions did what they could to brighten the space next to the worn dressing table and stool. A rack of costumes filled one corner and, conspicuously new among the old, was a gleaming full length mirror; a gift from her patron and patroness, who would brook no arguments about the necessity of it.

A soft knock drew Meg from her reverie and she looked up to find Christine. Her friend looked a little better than she had the night of their strange carriage ride. _"But not well enough."_ She patted the space next to her and Christine settled onto the divan, clutching a box to her chest as she had run out of lap to set things in.

"Raoul and I are excited to see you dance tonight, dearest." Christine leaned over awkwardly to plant a kiss on Meg's cheek.

"You're very sweet, but we both know that your husband couldn't give two figs about ballet."

Christine laughed sweetly. "I suppose you are right about that. But he does love to watch you dance. Our little Meg is going to be a star!"

"Oh nonsense." Meg muttered, feeling the blood start to creep into her cheeks.

"He does think much more highly of you than you do of him, you know." Christine persisted.

"That's a rather low bar to hurdle, don't you think?" Meg absently patted her hair, tucking stray pieces back in place. "Now could you please stop trying to match me up with your husband?"

"You promised-"

"To do what I could for your children, Christine. I never agreed to take your place. I can't _be_ you. And nothing is going to happen anyway. This is number five for heaven's sake." she rambled. "You'll lie down for the afternoon and come down to supper with a babe in arms."

"That's not quite how it works."

Meg gave her an exasperated stare. "I'm not a total idiot, Christine."

"No, of course not." she smiled. "Here, a gift from Raoul and me." Christine handed Meg the box she had been protecting. Meg held it in her lap, stroking the smooth paper it had been wrapped in.

"This really isn't necessary -"

"I know it's not. Open it." Christine commanded.

Meg pulled the ribbon away and unfolded the paper, uncovering a plain box. Inside, nestled in soft fabric, lay a beautiful pair of rose pink pointe shoes and matching ribbons.

"I realize that you won't have time to break them in for tonight. Maybe you can wear them tomorrow but I thought you should have shoes fit for a princess."

"Christine, I -" she put the lid back on and set the box with the beautiful shoes on the floor. "I really don't know what to say."

"Thank you is a nice start." Christine teased.

"Naturally. Thank you. To _both_ of you."

Christine nodded, rising slowly from the divan, her heavy belly making it difficult. Meg jumped up to offer her hand. "I won't bother you any longer. I know you'll want to prepare." she looked around the tiny room, looking for an instant as though she had forgotten where she was. "The ribbon, you-"

"I have it." Meg patted the pocket of her day gown. Christine kissed her cheek again and strode out of the room, leaving Meg feeling uneasy. She hopped over to the dressing table and drew the ribbon from her pocket.

Meg pressed the silk to her lips and then carefully tied it about the profusion of curls atop her head. He had called her 'cricket' and tonight his cricket would dance for him.

* * *

Meg panted, most unladylike, breathless from the excitement. She had danced her final steps, the final strain of music had faded away, and at last, the curtain had descended. Few performances go off without a hitch and this opening night was no exception. But when the curtain rose again to reveal a public on their feet Meg sank into a deep curtsy as the applause rolled over her like thunder.

 _"Now you only have to do this nine more times."_ she thought while smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. Tossed roses made a small pile at the company's feet. Meg glanced into the house and quickly searched the boxes, finding Christine, resplendent in satin and jewels, on her feet and cheering in a most un-aristocratic manner. Meg took a step backward and kept her head bowed as the curtain came down for the final time. In the darkness and muted applause, the dancers shared a sigh of relief and hugged one another for a job well done. They knew there would be notes but those could wait.

Congratulations from the excited crew members and the young girls in the dormitories slowed Meg's progress to her dressing room. It all felt so surreal, as though she were watching the evening play out from above her body while someone else inhabited it. Finally she reached her dressing room and slipped in, leaning against the door with a sigh. The silence was deafening after the chatter and applause. She crossed the room, shedding her costume slowly, not willing to disrupt the peace by calling for someone to help her. The dressing gown that hung over the back of the chair was old but comfortable. Meg slipped it on gratefully and stretched out on the divan.

She yawned hugely. _"I could sleep like Aurora."_

Boisterous voices in the hallway grew louder and louder just before the door burst open. The managers tumbled in with open bottles of champagne in their hands, Raoul and Christine hot on their heels.

"Bra _VA_ , mademoiselle!" the tubby Monsieur Desjardins shakily poured champagne into a glass, splashing the floor and his evening jacket with it. Meg accepted the glass, smiling politely at the balding man. It was clearly not Desjardins first bottle of the evening.

"Merci, Monsieur Desjardins."

"Pierre, if you please, La Giry." he offered.

His thinner and wiry business partner murmured his congratulations. She could never remember his name anyway.

" _At least I think they are congratulations"_

The man's lips moved but Meg could hear nothing.

"Merci, Monsie- Pierre, then." she rose, turning to Desjardins and kissed his damp cheek that blushed a brilliant crimson beneath her lips. She was drawn into Raoul's stiff arms and accepted his polite kiss; Christine ripped her away from Raoul before Meg had to think of something to say.

"You were amazing, Meg!" Christine all but attacked her with a crushing hug. "I have no words, truly."

"But you always have plenty of words."

"Your mother sends her apologies for not coming back with us, but she is waiting in the foyer."

"Thank you, Christine." she squeezed her friend in return. _"This could be the last time you ever see her."_ Meg's stomach twisted; where had that thought come from?

"Dearest, the baby." Raoul murmured in his wife's ear and Christine reluctantly stepped out of the embrace. Her face was flushed and her blue eyes burned with excitement.

 _"Or burning with fever_." a frown flickered across Meg's face. The comtess did seem rather warm, but it could just be from the bustle of the opening night crowd. She offered her hand to Monsieur Desjardins and he kissed it far too enthusiastically for her taste. He and the thin man made their excuses and moved their somewhat-two-man party on to the next dressing room. Meg shut the door behind them and sighed.

"Thank goodness." she wiped Desjardins moist kiss on her dressing gown and gestured to the divan. "Please, have a seat."

"No, thank you." Raoul declined, eyeing the poor furniture suspiciously though he did guide Christine to sit down. "You need to rest, dearest." he laid the back of his hand on her forehead, frowning. He would not meet Meg's questioning gaze.

 _"Has she told him of what she wishes for us?"_ Meg stewed a little, hoping that Christine had not. She would let go of that fancy as soon as she had her child in her arms.

"I'm fine, Raoul, honest." she leaned into his hand and he caressed her face lightly, both of them momentarily forgetting their audience. Annoyance rippled across Meg's face, it was safer to look at the floor. Why wouldn't they just go?

 _"Are you jealous, little Giry?"_ Erik's voice sneered. Her mind so often chose him to voice her less fine qualities. Meg smirked; he would find it appropriate, if unflattering.

"Get dressed, mademoiselle!" Christine exclaimed suddenly. "The comte and I shall give you a ride home."

"Marguerite." the comte murmured, bowing awkwardly to her but with his eyes on his wife. Christine accepted the arm he offered and they made their departure as quickly as they had come. Meg sagged against the wall.

Silence.

She _was_ jealous.

"Maybe maman was right. It's time to shed my spinsterhood." Meg latched the door and wandered to the corner where the new mirror gleamed. The woman looking back at her still seemed young, rosy and glowing with health. With the pull of a pin, the bun atop her head fell apart, her golden hair cascading down around her shoulders.

"Well, I'm no Christine Daae but I suppose I'll do." Meg told her reflection. She grabbed the gown from its hook and changed quickly, suddenly ready to be at home and alone in her room. Turning off the kerosene lamp on the dressing table, Meg threw her cloak over her shoulder and hurried away to join her friends.


	10. Chapter 10

Dancing as Aurora was a beautiful dream that ended too quickly. The triumph was over and Meg was deep into rehearsals for the spring production of _Coppelia_. Her hours were filled with music and movement and her heart soared. It made up for the pain and tears and the constant stress of her position. In the little time she was afforded away from the rehearsal hall, Meg remained at home with her mother. Madame Giry had been frequently unwell that winter and Meg did her best at playing nursemaid.

Meg tightened the shoe ribbons around her ankles and began a series of slow stretches, letting her gaze wander around the theatre and her mind drift away. Worry gnawed at her heart for both her mother and her best friend. Early into the new production, Christine's health deteriorated and she sent Raoul to attend rehearsals in her stead. Unlike his wife, he had little interest in the proceedings and little to add on the few occasions he _had_ been there. He sat in the empty house, a pale and brooding presence.

He had been good enough to escort her home on those nights though, playing the perfect gentleman, Meg recalled, knowing that Christine had goaded him into it. The final time, he escorted her to the door and in the shadows, kissed her cheek gently with cold lips. He muttered a cordial farewell, not daring to look at her startled face and retreated with haste. Christine and Raoul had removed to their country house the following day, to await the birth of Chagny child number six. The physicians insisted that the comtesse needed quiet rest away from the bustle of Paris, that a good birth did not need noise or the temptation of the opera house. The resting made sense, but Meg wasn't sure how a chateau in the country would ensure a good birth.

 _"Throwing money at a problem is always the aristocratic answer."_ Meg grumbled, pushing fluidly to her feet from the stage; her feet always knew what to do even if she did not. The auditorium was quiet, the other dancers voices drifted out from the backstage hallways. She took a calming breath and moved lightly to music only she could hear; up _en pointe_ and then down again, further stretching the calves and arms, it was comforting in how automatic it was.

The other dancers filtered onto the stage, each claiming a small area to perform their own warm up routine. Meg smiled and waved to the few who greeted her, other principals like her. The ladies of the corps, many of whom she had grown up with, only scowled at her as they arrived at rehearsal. Meg's heart sank; it was lonely at the top.

She drifted to her position near the front of the stage and waited for the choreographer to finish reviewing his notes and turn his attention to the assembled dancers. Meg was eager to begin, when she was dancing, it was easy to forget Raoul's distant but courtly behavior; and his cold kiss.

Before the rehearsal could begin, Monsieur Desjardins appeared at the back of the house, huffing and waddling his way down the aisle, pushing past the choreographer, knocking him over without an apology. Red faced and completely out of breath from the exercise, he motioned frantically to Meg.

"Monsieur Desjardins." Meg acknowledged, approaching the edge of the stage.

"Mademoiselle." he panted, holding out a sealed note to her. "A message from the Comte de Chagny."

" _Merci_ , monsieur." She murmured, ignoring the quiet hum of conversation behind her. Clearly the others had noticed Raoul's attention to her as well. Meg tucked the envelope under the waistband of her skirt; she could read it later. Monsieur Desjardins stared at her frantically.

"I was told that it is most urgent, Madamoiselle."

"Merci." She muttered, heaving an inward sigh. _"I was assured that Christine would be fine, how urgent could this possibly be?"_ Meg briefly admired the beautiful red wax and then broke the seal.

 _ **Marguerite,**_

 _ **Her time has arrived and it is hard going. She is asking for you; insisting upon it. Please, hurry. My man will bring you in the coach.**_

 _ **Raoul de Chagny**_

Meg's heart sank into the floor and she tossed the message at Monsieur Desjardins and dashed backstage.

"Madamoiselle, _please_! The rehearsal!" the choreographer called after her.

"I must go." Meg hurriedly laced up her boots. "I must go!" she shouted back. Scooping her dance clothing into a small linen bag, she babbled her apologies as she flew past the steaming choreographer; Monsieur Desjardins was hard on her heels, huffing and puffing once again.

Meg all but flew down the endless stairs and waited only a moment for the portly manager to catch up before she hopped into the waiting Chagny coach unassisted.

" _Merci_ , Pierre." She smiled thinly. "Please, send a message to my mother." Not waiting for his response, Meg rapped on the roof and the coach lurched forward into a steady speed. Meg settled into the seat, covering her lap with the blankets there to keep the chill away.

Her dear, sweet, silly Christine, who drove her completely batty and inspired such unkind thoughts; but she still loved her, even if she kept trying to throw Raoul into Meg's path. "She has her reasons, I suppose." Meg mumbled, rummaging around in the bag on her lap, withdrawing the red silk ribbon. She brought it to her lips and offered up a prayer to the dark evening sky. If the Phantom had ever been an angel, his beloved Christine could certainly use one now. Meg squeezed her eyes shut; trying to banish the feelings of dread, she only hoped it was not as bad as Raoul implied.


	11. Chapter 11

It was late in the night when the coach rolled to a stop in front of the Chagny home. Light blazed from the ground floor windows, beacons in the darkness. Meg hopped unassisted to the gravel drive and took the steps two at a time. She strode through the open door, slinging her cloak at the butler, ignoring his scowl. _Hang him, I don't have time for manners._ Raoul waited at the foot of the beautifully carved staircase; sorrow did not suit his handsome face. The comte without a smile was a grave looking man, far older than his years.

"How is she?" Meg grasped his outstretched hands, briefly relishing his warmth around her chilled fingers.

"It was a hard labour.."

" _Was_?"

"The babe came an hour ago." Raoul smiled weakly. "She is waiting for you. Up the stairs, to the right, through the fourth door on the left."

Meg squeezed his hands and without further reply, ascended the stairs. She rushed through the quiet corridor and into a room that was dark compared to the garish light downstairs and it was hot, _far_ too hot. She pushed past the scowling midwife and threw open the window, drinking deeply of the cool night air.

"The child could catch a chill, mademoiselle." the woman scolded.

"Has _anyone_ ever died of fresh air?" Meg retorted.

"The cold air will snatch the breath from its lungs."

Meg stared. "You don't honestly believe that."

Not waiting for an answer (she seemed to be in the habit of not waiting for answers), Meg moved across to the bed and sank to her knees at Christine's bedside.

"Meg." Christine smiled and though pale and sweaty from her ordeal, still managed to be the most beautiful woman in Meg's estimation. _Sometimes, it's just not fair_ , the envy monster in her head complained.

"I'm here, dearest, I came as fast as I could." Meg kissed her friend's clammy hand.

"Another girl." She answered dreamily. "May I not see my baby girl?" Christine weakly stretched out her arms for the baby but the midwife pointedly looked away.

"You've not held the baby?" Meg asked incredulously, fixing the midwife with a stony stare. A tiny cry of protest came from the cradle; the newest Mademoiselle de Chagny. Meg jerked her head toward the new mother and waited while the woman reluctantly presented Christine with the reward of her confinement. Meg and the woman stuffed pillows around Christine to prop her limp arms up for her daughter. When both mother and daughter were finally situated, Meg was able to get a good look at the baby.

The infant was small and white, the blue of her veins showing prominently through her translucent skin; blue eyed like most babies, but they seemed bleary and unseeing, rather than simply unfocused. She looked as weak as her cry had sounded.

" _This child cannot possibly survive._ " Meg clasped her hands tight against her stomach, feeling as though she would be sick; she was beginning to understand why the midwife had been so reluctant to let Christine hold her child. " _She doesn't want her to get too attached_." Meg grabbed a cloth and dipped it in the wash basin, wringing it out thoroughly for something to do. She slid into the bed next to mother and child and laid the cloth on Christine's pasty forehead.

"She's beautiful." Meg lied while smoothing the damp tendrils of hair away from Christine's face as the baby began to cry angrily, pathetically. "Have you thought of a name yet?"

"I was considering Marguerite." Christine tried to put the child to her breast but she did not suckle. The hungry baby did not seem to be aware that nourishment was so close.

" _Tsk_ no, don't burden her with that." Meg's brow creased with worry.

"Not all come out knowing how right away." Christine murmured, noticing Meg's concern. Perhaps she was trying to reassure herself while her new daughter continued to cry. At a loss for words, Meg removed the cloth and tossed it back into the basin with a _splash_.

"Was there a physician present? Where has he gone?" Meg drew the midwife aside.

"Yes, he's downstairs sitting with the comte, I believe."

The woman glanced over at Christine, who was distracted, tracing her fingers over the oh so fragile features of her daughter's tiny face. "It was a bad time – that either of them are still here, drawing breath, is a miracle in itself."

There was nothing Meg could think of to refute that statement.

"Please tell Raoul that his daughter has arrived and we are both well." Christine tried to smile but it looked more like a grimace in a drawn face that shone feverishly.

"I will tell him that his daughter is here." Meg said cautiously. Raoul would know she was lying if she told him otherwise. " _I would not be here if you were well._ " She went to her friend's side and kissed her forehead gently; Christine's head was burning hot. Drawing the silk ribbon from her skirt pocket, Meg wrapped it carefully around Christine's hand. "I thought this might give you some comfort."

Christine stroked the silk with her thumb; a dreamy look came over her face. She caressed the baby with it.

"I wonder what he would have thought of you." she kissed the top of the infant's head.

Meg frowned a little. She could imagine the Opera Ghost fraught with worry and off to fetch the physician. " _Or every physician_."

"I love you, Meg." Christine's eyes looked unfocused, she wasn't seeing Meg; she slowly ran the silk between her thumb and forefinger.

"And I you, dearest." Meg gave her another swift kiss. "Please rest. I will return very soon." she promised, leaving Christine humming a strange and beautiful tune to her baby.

Meg shut the door softly and leaned against the heavy wood. " _None of this is any good._ " Her eyes burned with tears but she fought them off and took a deep breath. The air in the hallway was blessedly cooler than Christine's room and she relaxed a little as she returned downstairs. She found Raoul in the library with a grey looking old man whom she assumed to be the physician, both men with a glass of brandy in hand.

"How did you find her? Is she well?" Raoul's questions tumbled out as he jumped up to lead Meg to a chair near the fire.

"Yes, the baby has come. You have a daughter."

"And Christine?" he prompted. Meg found a point just to the right of Raoul's face; his earnest blue eyes were more than she could take.

"Have you not seen her?" she stalled. How could she tell the doctor without alarming Raoul? A rap on the door saved her, the footman slipping in to fetch the physician, who hurried away without a word, thundering up the staircase.

"Perhaps you ought to go to her? I know she wants to see you" she suggested; she and Raoul shared a worried look.

Raoul tapped his nails against the brandy glass. "Meg.. I want to apologize-"

"There's no _time_ for this, go! Go! _Please_." she urged, desperate to silence him. She wanted none of his apologies or declarations. Meg extracted the glass from Raoul's hands. Their fingers brushed together, sending a small shock through her. Meg lifted her eyes to his; he had felt it too. " _God, this is silly. Are you really that lonely, Meg?_ "

"Go on, Raoul. That midwife is a wench and I know Christine will want you."

He nodded and strode to the door, turning to look again at her. She could see the argument in his head, torn between Christine's side and saying whatever was on his mind. Finally, mind apparently made up, he turned on his heel and left, becoming another storm of footsteps hurrying upstairs to the comtesse. Meg took a careful sip of the brandy and sputtered, setting the glass down quickly.

"Augh!" Meg slouched into the physician's vacated chair with posture that would make her mother's hair stand on end. The house was very still but she didn't feel alone. There was probably age's worth of Chagny ghosts sitting next to her. Wearily, she curled up into the chair and the warmth of the fire lulled her into an uneasy sleep.

A cry of anguish shattered the silence and Meg tumbled out of the chair and to her feet before she realized she had even been asleep. " _How long have I been in here?_ "

She groggily stumbled up the staircase when a low, mournful wail stopped her halfway. Her eyes popped wide open. Taking the rest of the stairs two at a time, Meg flew down the corridor and skidded to a stop in the doorway of Christine's room.

"Raoul, what-" the question died on her lips. Raoul's face was twisted with grief, eyes already red from weeping.

"Gone." He choked and fell into her arms, heaving with silent sobs. Meg awkwardly rubbed his back, being too stunned to do anything else. The physician and midwife blocked most of her view of the bed but she could still see blood on the sheets. " _Lots of it._ "

The thin mewling cry of the new baby joined her father's sobs, a symphony of mourning for the mother she would never know. Meg longed to shake Christine, to demand she return and how dare she leave them all this way. But there would be no answer, the body was already beginning to cool; it was all that was left of the woman Meg had loved and fought with like a sister.


	12. Chapter 12

He usually did not care for colder climates but New York City suited him fine. It was a busy place with hundreds of thousands of people crammed into Manhattan with more people pouring in from all corners of the world every day. Many people stared but few cared enough to bother the odd old man wearing a mask. He was foreign, an eccentric, he'd heard some murmur and Erik was content to let them think that.

Weak spring sunlight squeezed through the heavy black drapes over a drafty window. Erik shuddered, turning the gas lantern higher and lighting extra candles around his workspace. A decade above ground had not been enough to accustom him to the harsh natural light. He lightly caressed the piano keys; the pen in his left hand was still.

Erik missed the opera house and its opulence, ostentatious but beautiful, filled to bursting with the Parisian elite in their rustling silks and brightly coloured plumage. Oh, and the _sound_! If he closed his eyes he could still hear the humming strings and thundering drums, perfectly ornamented by the pure and clear song of Christine Daae soaring through the auditorium. Theatres in New York were small and none as large and grand as the Populaire and certainly none so deep that he could live beneath them. Vaudeville was the flavor of the day but he did not care for it; it reminded him too much of those years he spent travelling in the gypsy freak show. Still, the performers paid him well for personal compositions and others sought him out for lessons. If the mask he wore ever bothered them, they never let on. Life was busy but Erik still longed for the underground, the damp darkness, nestled in the womb of a temple of art and sound.

"A fantasy." He snorted, the vision of Christine alone on the stage vanishing. The fop would've stolen her away soon enough, luring her away from Erik's sphere of influence. Her angelic voice, surely a gift from Heaven, silenced forever. Erik grimaced and tossed the pen aside. He had been determined to forget Christine the day he sailed from France, to forget the whole sorry lot of them. He had stood on deck and mentally carved her from his heart but he had not cut deeply enough.

"How can one forget an angel?" Erik murmured to the tiny gilt frame atop the piano, a newspaper clipping announcing Christine's marriage to the vicomte, accompanied by a fuzzy photograph. Madame Giry had sent it to him years ago. Erik sighed, he never wanted her to know he still lived but she was the only one he trusted to retrieve the valuables he'd left behind.

"In spite of her betrayal."

Madame Giry leading the fop to him and Christine had hurt almost as much as losing Christine. But the hurt did not ache as it once had or could have if not tempered by the kindness that little Meg had shown him. He emptied the contents of Madame Giry's latest envelope onto the keys, two clippings of Meg and a small spidery note about her daughter's new position. Meg looked radiant in her regalia, graceful and fluid; no longer 'little Meg' but a mature woman who had, hopefully, shed girlhood fancies of lonely ghosts.

"Hopefully _I_ am long forgotten."

The huddled whispers of curious chorus girls still followed him around only this time they knew him to be a man and not a haunt or cautionary tale to scare the little ones with. Erik took pains to avoid their attentions but his aloofness only fueled the interest further. It was the mask that lent the mystery but if they knew what lay beneath..

"But Meg did see Erik and she did not scream."

The bell hung on the front door clanged wildly and Erik jumped, loud stomping in the hallway announced the arrival of his Tuesday morning pupil.

"Monsieur Raquet?" a female voice drawled and a shapely blonde appeared in the doorway, not having bothered to be received properly.

"Miss Hayes." Erik smiled thinly and motioned her over. His least favourite time of the week but he poured his annoyance onto the piano, warming up his fingers. The woman had little stage appeal and no ear for music at all but her family had a lot of money and no propriety; other ladies of Miss Hayes' social standing would not be seen near a stage.

"I trust you are in good health?" he asked noncommittally. "Good, let us begin." Erik led her through a series of very basic warm ups and then arpeggios and though he couldn't deny that Miss Hayes could carry a tune, it wasn't a very pleasing tune. There was a shrill, nasal quality to her tone that needled its way under his skin. If he dallied and drew out the warm up long enough there wouldn't be time to rehearse any actual music, which would please him; Miss Hayes had chosen enjoyable songs and Erik had every intention of continuing to enjoy them by not marring the tunes with her voice.

"Oh who is that?" Miss Hayes had moved too closely, standing just behind his shoulder as he shuffled sheet music. She was pointing to the framed clipping of Christine.

"Just a former student." Erik said flatly, giving her a firm push. "Please, Miss Hayes, you are crowding me."

"Your former student was Christine Daae?" she reached over and snatched the frame from the piano. "How fascinating! It's so sad, you know, what happened to her."

Erik stiffened, his topaz eyes narrowed to slits behind the mask. "What happened to her?" She couldn't possibly think that trifling with him was a good idea. Not that she had any clue about what happened between him and Christine, nor would she ever.

"You hadn't heard?"

"I've not instructed Miss Daae in many years."

"Oh." Miss Hayes reluctantly gave up her prize as Erik pried the photograph from her fingers. "She died in childbirth, nothing exceptionally tragic you know, but still so sad for her children."

"You lie. Where did you hear such nonsense?"

"In the society papers of course, don't you read?"

"Then your papers lie." He hissed. Her lips kept moving but Erik could no longer hear her. The world was as upside down as his insides. Christine, dead? It was impossible!..wasn't it? Erik's fingers itched for his lasso, even a rag and a bottle of ether would do. Anything to silence her lies.

"Oh, dear, would you look at the time." Erik slumped, a little disappointed to choose the civil option of being rid of his student. "I fear our lesson is over for this week."

"I hope I haven't dampened your spirits, Monsieur Raquet." She paused at the door and for a moment looked beautiful in her complete sincerity.

"No, of course not. People die every day." Erik muttered at her retreating form. The door slammed and the bell clanged in protest.

He left the piano, stretching his long legs cramped from sitting too long. Peering through the slit in the drapes, Erik squinted into the sunshine and watched the neighbourhood children thundering past followed by the booming, accented voices of their immigrant parents. The sky had not darkened, it remained impertinently clear. The earth had not been ripped asunder nor did flames dance from the cracks. The world had not ended; it was another ordinary Tuesday and Christine was dead.

"Erik does not love Christine. He dropped his heart into the ocean."

Erik flung himself onto the creaky couch, staring at the ceiling, his eyes burning with tears he could not muster.

"Erik does not love Christine." He whispered, conjuring memories of beautiful, soft and warm Christine, now cold and hard and lifeless; his heart ached but still he could not cry. "Erik does not love Christine." He choked back a dry eyed sob.

Hours passed, his old bones ached too, he had not moved, could still not cry. Madame Giry had not sent him notice of her death, unless it was still making its way through the post.

"Unless she decided not to tell Erik, too afraid that scary old Erik will come back to punish her." He paused, eyes opening wide. "Maybe Erik _should_ go back. He wants to ask the black spider why she did not write to him. Erik needs to say goodbye to his Christine."

He sprung to his feet, rejuvenated. A single trunk held all the clothing he required, some books and his music. Erik scrawled a note for the landlady, for surely it was too late to call upon her, and tucked away the cash to cover the rent in his absence. Feeling very much like the Opera Ghost again, he donned the long black cloak and swept from the building.

Erik felt positively giddy as he rode to the waterfront, chuckling quietly as he imagined Madame Giry's reaction when he materialized before her, cape outstretched like a vampire coming to drain her blood. Perhaps her heart would give out from the surprise. He laughed aloud at the thought.

"By dawn, Erik will be at sea, like a black carrion crow waiting for the dead, Erik is ready to play the funeral march!"


	13. Chapter 13

Late season snows gave away to seasonal spring mud, which spread like spilled chocolate on the hems of her skirts and stained almost as stubbornly. The cemetery gate shrieked in protest at Meg's intrusion but she persisted and shoved her way inside. Cold rain misted down soaking her bonnet, clinging to her clothes, her face shone wet with moisture. Water dripped from the petals of the soggy flowers she carried.

"Oh to be a sponge and wring myself out." She muttered, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. The Chagny mausoleum beckoned from the end of the puddle strewn path and Meg hopped nimbly over them, keys jangling in her skirt pocket, to Christine's tomb and its promise of shelter.

She rushed up the steps, slipping the key into the lock. "Come on," Meg told the door, anticipating a struggle, but the key turned easily and the door swung open. "Raoul must have had that repaired." Meg stepped into the chilly peace of the mausoleum and shut the door, letting the darkness envelope her. She fumbled with matches until one finally ignited and lit the lamps left there for her use. They cast long shadows across the room, Meg hesitated; she was not alone.

"Of course you're not alone. You're in a room full of dead people." She took a deep breath and crossed over to the newest tomb, setting her lamp on the stone lid. The soggy wildflowers made a poor addition to the beautiful hot house flowers that adorned the base of Christine's grave, even those blooms beginning to wilt. But her friend had been simple at heart and with the arrival of spring, Meg brought wildflowers each visit.

Meg had come to the cemetery every chance she had to slip away, several times a week, each time tracing the letters etched into the stone, whispering the letters like a secret incantation; the flowers, the lamp light and Christine's name stirring an ancient magic that would bring the singer back to her. But the room was silent save for Meg's breath and the rainfall outside, the grave undisturbed, the bad dream she could not wake from continued on.

"Raoul wants to sell the ballet." She started, absently cleaning the older flowers away as she filled Christine in on all that had been going on. "I thought he might keep it, out of respect for you. Maybe it's just too hard." Meg picked dried leaves from the stones, placing them in a pile. "Your comte never did like ballet - But..Your angel would have never let it go." She sighed as she climbed to her feet. Erik was never far from her mind and Meg often wondered how he would have done things had it been he in Raoul's place. "Lose his mind with grief, no doubt." Meg reached for the lamp; a rose she had missed in her first pass caught her eye. Meg gasped and held the lamp closer, illuminating the dark corner of the lid were two roses lay, one red, the other white, in full bloom and tied together with a silk red ribbon.

"It's him, I know it's him!" she whispered, rubbing the silk ribbon between her fingers. Christine's angel had been to her final resting place. Meg slipped the white rose from its companion and wandered to a corner wall vault, where Christine's baby girl rested. The offerings there were fewer, the sad afterlife of a much anticipated child. Delicate Helene de Chagny, aged two days, much longer than anyone had imagined she would live, had been interred quietly after her mother. Her father had barely been able to look at the baby; no one in the household could. Meg took charge, wheedling the priest to baptize the baby right away. Madame Giry had come at Meg's invitation and together, with the nurse, they watched over Helene until the end. She had been buried without ceremony.

"I wonder if your father even told your brothers and sisters about you." Meg murmured, tucking the rose in the crack between the vault and the wall. Mothers sometimes gave birth and died, many along with their infants. She knew Raoul had told them that much anyway. Meg caressed the plaque that bore the baby's name and prayed that mother and child were at peace in heaven. "This wasn't supposed to happen." She told Christine's resting place, her voice cracked. "Why'd you leave us?"

Christine's demise in childbirth was a grim reminder to Meg that marriage and children could bring disaster. She felt like a fool to have ever been jealous of her friend. "I will dance until I die."

"Until you die from what, petite Marguerite?"

Meg whirled around to see Raoul ducking through the door and removing his hat to shake the water from it. She leaned against Christine's stone, trying to knock the remaining rose off with her elbow.

"It's nothing. I'm only realizing that perhaps motherhood is not all it is made out to be." She heard the flower hit the floor and when Raoul turned away to peel off his drenched great coat, she pushed it into the shadows with her foot. "I think I would prefer to dance, until someone forces me off the stage."

"It doesn't always end this way, Meg." He had moved in too close and she could feel his hot breath on the side of her head.

"More often than anyone cares to discuss though." Meg frowned and sidled away unnoticed. Raoul sat quietly before the stone, like he was communing with it. Meg studied the Comte from a more comfortable distance, noticing thin silver streaks in his blond hair. His shoulders stooped ever so slightly as they had since Christine's death, the strain of family and grief crushing down, trying to break him. Meg did wish to help him and the children however she could, she wasn't heartless. But he'd been acting more familiar with her since the night they lost Christine and it just wasn't right.

The white rose taunted her from Helene's vault. She could not shake the sensation that the phantom had returned to pay his respects. _"Don't be absurd, Meg. He died, maman said so. Why would she lie to you?"_. Madame Giry had plenty of reason to lie to her and Meg knew it. She glanced around the dim room, wondering if she would catch a glimpse of the shade, somewhere inside and hiding.


End file.
